On  the  Fiei 

[An  Clia 


amp  li 
By  Hiigiii 


nii'ifj 


L    Jit.  Jl 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 
(Au  Champ  d'Honneur) 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF 
HONOR 

(Au  Champ  d'Honneur) 

BY 

HUGUES  LE  ROUX 
» » 

TRANSLATED    BY 

MRS.  JOHN  VAN  VORST 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

1918 


^ 


COPYRIGHT,   191S,   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  January  igi8 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I 

Paris,  August  i,  1914. 

I  HAVE  known  it  since  this  morning:  the 
mobilization  has  been  decided.  Robert,  my 
lieutenant,  is  to  leave  for  the  front. 

This  has  not  come  as  a  surprise.  Last 
year  he  took  a  certain  initiative  which  met 
with  success.  He  found  his  own  regiment 
quartered  too  far  from  the  frontier.  In  case 
there  was  to  be  war,  he  wanted,  from  the 
start,  to  be  on  the  firing-line.  I  did  what 
I  could  to  further  this  wish  of  his.  The  an- 
swer I  received  was:  "This  is  not  an  es- 
pecial favor.  The  reports  we  have  received 
recommend  this  officer  particularly  highly." 

I  was  glad  of  this. 

The  apartment  where  my  dear  son  lives 
is  situated  directly  opposite  my  own;  the 


4  ON    THE   FIELD  OF   HONOR 

Seine  and  the  beautiful  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries  lie  between  us.  I  speed  across 
them  now. 

His  concierge  is  putting  a  few  stitches  in 
a  pair  of  red  trousers  —  my  boy's  trousers. 
This  morning,  as  usual,  he  had  already  left 
the  house  by  seven  o'clock  for  his  factory 
in  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  in  order  to  turn 
over  to  his  chiefs  his  especial  duties. 

I  shall  go  to  his  office  in  the  old  quarter 
of  the  Temple  and  wait  for  him. 

Learning  of  my  presence  there  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Board  of  Directors  says  to  me: 
"Your  son  is  universally  admired  and 
loved  among  us  here.  We  were  so  happy, 
three  weeks  ago,  when  we  heard  that  he 
had  become  engaged.  He  seemed  radiant 
with  joy:  a  joy  that  must  now  be  post- 
poned." 

A  quarter  to  eleven. 

The  engineers  returning  from  the  fac- 
tory tell  me  that  Robert  has  gone  back  to 
Paris.  He  will  not  come  now  to  his  office ; 
my  best  chance  of  finding  him  will  be  at 
his  flat. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  5 

So  here  I  wait  in  his  salon  in  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  Like  his  bedroom  it  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  chapel  dedicated  to  the  mem- 
ory of  his  mother,  for  whom  he  has  just 
taken  off  mourning.  The  portraits  of  his 
fiancee  are  here  together  with  ours.  His 
canteen  is  open  on  the  divan;  lying  about 
are  the  shoes  and  clothes  he  has  worn  dur- 
ing the  manoeuvres.  I  continue  to  wait. 
I  am  impatient  for  his  presence  to  put  an 
end  to  the  silence  which  reigns  in  these  two 
rooms. 

At  last,  here  he  is. 

He  says:  "Well,  this  time  it's  a  sure 
thing." 

"My  poor  child!" 

He  knows  it:  that  I  am  not  grieving  at 
what  he  must  do.  Ever  since  he  has  reached 
the  age  of  reason  we  have  talked  together 
of  the  war,  as  one  speaks  of  a  beautiful 
dream.  But  how  can  I  help  thinking  of  his 
recent  happiness,  the  joy  he  was  about  to 
realize,  and  which  is  now  vanishing ! 

He  understands  and  he  smiles. 

How  well  I  know  that  smile!  I  saw  it  on 


6  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

his  face,  ten  years  ago,  the  night  his  brother 
died.  I  had  asked  him  not  to  sleep  in  the 
same  room,  which,  since  their  earUest  child- 
hood, he  and  his  brother  had  shared. 

He  answered  me  then:  "I  must  become 
accustomed  to  it.  The  sooner  the  better." 

To-day  he  says:  "If  this  had  happened 
last  year,  when  I  was  leaving  for  the  ma- 
noeuvres, I  would  have  been  glad  beyond 
words.  But  now  .  .  . !  It  was  hard  for  a 
moment,  but  that's  past  —  everything  is 
all  right;  only  I  can't  help  regretting  that 
I  must  leave  without  seeing  *her'  again." 

His  mobilization  billet  will  not  in  any 
case  be  delivered  to  him  before  this  eve- 
ning. And  yet,  I  can  scarcely  persuade 
him  to  do  what  he  most  desires. 

Presently  we  are  rolling  along  in  the 
August  sunlight  upon  the  road  which  leads 
to  a  far-away  country  place.  In  spite  of 
the  sun's  glare  I  have  the  impression  that 
the  way  has  been  swept  by  a  tempest.  Al- 
ready there  are  no  more  men  to  be  seen 
anywhere.  The  women,  standing  in  little 
groups,  talk  together  before  the  doors  of 


ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR  7 

the  houses.  They  are  deep  in  conversation; 
they  Hft  their  arms,  gesticulating,  relating 
each  her  own  adventure.  Those  who  stand 
alone  are  weeping.  The  road  is  clear,  more- 
over, of  all  traffic,  of  all  the  heavy  peasant 
carts  which  usually  encumber  it  and  which 
go  on  their  way  heedless  of  the  motor's 
horn. 

We  scarcely  speak:  not  only  because  of 
the  roughness  of  the  cobblestones,  but  be- 
cause we  should  have  too  many  last  things 
to  say  to  each  other. 

"Don't  forget,  my  boy,  what  experience 
I  have  had  in  my  explorations.  Believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  better  to  sleep 
on  stones,  on  pebbles,  than  on  the  ground 
itself.  The  war  will  come  to  an  end  and 
you  must  return  well  and  strong  for  *her* 
sake." 

He  smiles  more  cheerfully  than  just  now 
and  he  slips  his  hand  into  mine.  I  hold  it 
fast  as  though  he  had  become  a  child  again. 


II 


She  did  not  know  that  we  were  coming, 
his  little  fiancee,  but  her  heart  was  awake 
to  every  sound  that  passed.  We  have  not 
time  to  ring;  already  the  gate  is  open. 

I  have  known  her  only  a  short  time,  this 
young  girl,  in  whom  the  only  boy  left  me 
has  placed  all  his  love  and  all  our  hope. 
My  intercourse  with  her  has  been  the  mere 
contact  of  superficial  politeness  during  a 
brief  engagement. 

Now,  with  her  beautiful  hair  flying  loose 
about  her  poor,  tragic  face,  with  her  tears, 
she  is  no  longer  the  amiable  stranger  whom 
one  welcomes,  for  better,  for  worse,  with 
an  indulgent  smile.  She  has  become  one  of 
us  through  our  common  suffering. 

She  throws  herself  into  her  fiance's  arms. 

Looking  at  them  I  recall  a  little  song 
which  seems  to  sound  now  in  my  memory, 
like  a  sob.  It  expresses,  as  a  passionate 
people  understand  it,  man's  chance  of  hap- 
piness : 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  9 

"Two  kisses  I  hold  fast  In  my  soul's 
very  depths, 
And  which  never  leave  me: 
The  last  my  mother  gave  me, 
The  first  I  took  from  you." 

Helen's  mother  has  gone  to  Paris  hop- 
ing for  news.  Her  daughter  wants  to  fol- 
low her,  so,  together,  we  three  set  out  for 
the  railroad.  The  train  will  take  us  more 
quickly  than  the  motor,  to  Paris. 

In  the  compartment  I  leave  the  two 
fiances  alone.  I  keep  my  eyes  turned  to- 
ward the  window. 

Trains  of  soldiers  pass  us  one  after  an- 
other. The  horses  seem  in  splendid  condi- 
tion; the  men  are  standing  at  their  heads. 
Their  bare,  muscular  arms  are  halfway 
out  of  the  windows  of  these  improvised 
stables.  Men  and  animals  are  a  picture 
of  strength,  magnificent,  irresistible.  They 
pass  followed  by  cheers. 

In  a  cattle  van,  just  like  these,  fifteen 
months  ago,  in  Bulgaria,  I  spent  a  day  and 
a  night  among  the  soldiers  who  had  been 
carried  off  the  battlefield.  Bleeding,  dying, 


10  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

they  lay  there  in  the  straw!  .  .  .  Away 
with  such  memories !  I  must  not  show  my 
anguish  to  these  two  children  who  are  still 
talking  together  of  their  hopes,  of  their 
future  happiness. 

No  order  has  been  sent  to  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli  to  the  address  of  our  lieutenant. 
Helen  goes  to  join  her  mother.  This  eve- 
ning Robert  will  dine  with  them ;  I  will  come 
at  midnight  to  find  my  boy  in  his  rooms. 

The  news  which  is  given  me  at  the  For- 
eign Office  somewhat  raises  my  hopes. 

The  Premier  has  told  the  German  Am- 
bassador that  "mobilization  does  not  mean 
war"! 

The  Ambassador  has  proposed  some  pos- 
sible negotiation  in  which  England,  Rus- 
sia, —  Germany  herself,  —  may  take  part. 
Austria  would  then  be  invited  to  heed  the 
advice  of  Europe  and  the  result  would  be 
peace. 

What  a  long  way  I  have  travelled  since 
this  morning! 

The  word  "  peace "  seems  to  weigh  upon 
my  heart. 


Ill 


When,  at  midnight,  I  ring  at  the  apart- 
ment in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  concierge  is 
sleeping,  the  house  is  in  darkness. 

It  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  here  at 
night.  I  creep  up  the  stairs,  feeling  my 
way.  There  are  two  hallways,  a  lift,  a  glass 
door.  Not  sure  at  all,  I  try  rapping,  at  my 
right,  upon  what  chances  to  be  the  right 
door. 

No  particular  instructions  have  been  sent 
to  my  lieutenant,  but  posters  placarded 
everywhere  by  this  time  are  calling  the 
men  not  to  wait  for  more  formal  notifica- 
tion. So  it  is  to-morrow  morning  that  he 
is  to  leave. 

I  found  him  writing  a  few  letters  to  differ- 
ent relatives,  to  old  friends,  to  his  sister,  — 
our  Marie-Rose,  —  whom  the  mobilization 
finds  in  Normandy,  too  far  away  to  reach 
her  brother  before  he  leaves. 

He  asks  me  to  send  my  servant,  now  and 


12  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

then,  to  clean  his  rooms  and  to  brush  his 
clothes:  "So  that  things  won't  be  eaten 
by  the  moths  when  I  return." 

Again  he  smiles. 

The  news  which  I  bring  him,  and  which 
I  no  longer  believe  myself,  as  we  stand 
there  before  his  closed  canteen,  his  revolver, 
and  his  glistening  sword,  does  not  seem  to 
touch  him.  He  does  not  wish  the  enemy's 
retreat. 

"Now  that  the  sacrifice  is  made!" 

His  thoughts  and  mine  are  with  the  little 
fiancee;  he  says  with  melancholy:  "When  I 
consider  myself  only,  I  envy  those  who  were 
married  yesterday.  When  I  put  myself  in 
her  place,  I  realize  that  all  is  for  the  best." 

I  beg  him  to  lie  down  and  get  some  rest. 
On  the  divan  there  is  a  prayer-carpet  which 
I  gave  him.  Often  in  my  tent,  in  Africa, 
I  had  used  it  as  a  bed,  when  I  was  travel- 
ling alone,  across  the  sands,  the  under- 
brush, the  mountains,  or  the  swamps. 

I  long  now  to  stretch  myself  out  on  this 
little  rug  and  to  sleep  until  morning  under 
the  same  roof  with  my  boy,  —  until  morn- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  13 

ing,  when  I  can  go  with  him  to  the  train. 
But  obviously  this  is  not  his  wish.  He  does 
not  give  me  his  reasons,  but  I  can  imagine 
them. 

It  is  not  for  me  that  he  reserves  his  final 
adieu;  he  surrounds  his  love  with  a  certain 
mystery  as  though  to  isolate  it. 

How  well  I  understand  him  without  his 
speaking. 

My  beloved  son,  I,  too,  am  capable  of 
sacrifice.  I  recall  the  days  when  the  robust 
athlete,  which  you  have  now  become,  was 
only  a  poor  little  child,  suffocating  with 
croup.  The  surgeon's  knife  had  gone  deep 
into  your  throat.  All  about  you,  those  who 
cherished  you,  had  been  contaminated  by 
the  horrible  contagion.  You  had  been  re- 
duced to  the  last  stages  of  infection,  —  the 
newspapers  had  announced  the  death  of 
my  son.  But  I  was  determined  to  fight 
to  the  end  and  to  save  you.  Seated  by  the 
seaside,  on  the  beach,  I  held  you  in  your 
agony.  When  I  saw  you  sinking  away,  I 
gave  you  ether.  I  dropped  champagne  or 
cognac  into  your  baby  throat. 


14         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I  brought  you  back  after  days  of  strug- 
gle, during  which  I  loved  you  as  a  father 
and  as  a  mother.  There,  lying  against  my 
breast,  dear  son,  you  were  born  again ;  and 
yet,  your  last  thought  now  is  not  for  me. 
You  belong  more  to  your  own  hopes  for  the 
future  than  to  me.  No  doubt  it  is  a  privi- 
lege to  be  able  to  give  you  both  to  your 
country  and  to  love. 

He  must  get  some  sleep  now. 

He  takes  a  candle.  Together  we  descend 
the  complicated  stairs  where  I  had  groped 
my  way,  in  the  shadows,  alone. 

The  concierge  is  still  sound  asleep.  At  a 
time  when  silence  is  so  precious  we  are 
obliged  to  call  and  call.  One  would  almost 
think  me  impatient;  in  a  hurry  to  get 
away. 

At  last  the  door  opens. 

There,  on  the  threshold,  I  bid  my  boy 
farewell.  The  candle  he  holds  in  his  hand 
throws  its  light  upward.  I  see  him  as  he 
stands  before  me  with  his  blue  leggings, 
his  red  trousers,  his  flannel  shirt.  As  I  put 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  15 

my  arms  about  him,  I  feel  his  shoulders, 
his  back,  —  so  strong,  so  muscular. 

As  I  bend  over  to  kiss  him  he  smiles  and 
he  says:  "You  know  that  I  shall  do  my 
duty,  and  a  little  more,  if  I  have  the 
chance." 


IV 


Just  now  I  passed  in  front  of  the  rail- 
road station  by  which  he  left  this  morning. 

The  streets,  the  boulevards,  make  a  dan- 
gerous crossing  on  account  of  the  mad 
rapidity  with  which  the  automobiles  speed 
by.  They  are  loaded  with  soldiers,  in  all 
sorts  of  uniforms,  hastening  toward  the 
train.  Flags  are  swung  from  every  win- 
dow. The  street  is  decorated  as  for  the 
14th  of  July.  The  crowd  fills  the  sidewalk, 
the  street  itself.  The  dense  masses  part  at 
the  sound  of  the  bugles  and  then  close 
again.  There  is  a  sound  unbroken  like  the 
murmur  of  the  sea.  All  is  an  atmosphere 
of  confidence,  of  honor,  and  of  gayety.  The 
people  seem  to  have  aroused  themselves  to 
the  joy  of  action  after  forty  years  of  wait- 
ing, which  have  held  them  as  by  an  evil 
spell.  Here  and  there,  however,  women, 
young  and  old,  move  along  as  though  walk- 
ing in  their  sleep! 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  17 

In  the  Rue  Lafayette  I  met  a  couple  who 
have  haunted  me  since.  A  workman  of 
about  thirty,  strong  and  yet  already  slightly 
bowed  under  the  weight  of  labor  and  of 
hardship.  By  the  hand  he  held  his  little 
girl  —  a  child  of  about  six.  She  had  on  an 
apron  and  a  little  bonnet  which  covered 
her  brown  hair.  He  was  talking  to  her  as 
one  speaks  to  a  grown-up  person  who  is 
already  well  accustomed  to  being  resigned 
and  who  understands  that  courage  is  a  duty. 

He  kept  saying  to  her  these  two  words, 
which,  ever  since  yesterday,  all  the  men 
one  meets  are  whispering  to  the  women 
clinging  to  their  sides : 

"You  understand  .  .  ." 

And  she  "understands,"  this  little  girl 
of  six  years  old.  She  "understands"  that 
the  mother  she  once  had  has  long  been 
dead,  but  that  she  still  had  the  father  — 
somewhat  rough,  perhaps,  but  so  kind — 
the  father,  whose  hand  she  now  holds.  She 
"understands"  that  presently  she  must 
loosen  her  grasp ;  that  her  father  then  will 
lift  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  that  he  will  kiss 


i8         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

her;  that  he  will  leave  her  with  people  she 
scarcely  knows,  going  off  without  turning 
his  head.  All  this  she  "understands"  very 
clearly,  the  little  girl  of  six.  She  was  not 
crying;  she  had  "understood"! 

As  I  looked  at  her  I  felt  my  heart  heavy 
with  shame.  I  said  to  myself:  "Your  son 
is  not  the  only  one  to  go." 

And  my  thoughts  turned  toward  the 
young  men  of  twenty  who,  every  Sunday, 
filled  our  country  house. 

I  think  of  you,  Charles,  my  sister's  son, 
whom  my  mother  loved  so  tenderly.  In 
two  months'  time  you  were  to  have  finished 
your  military  service  with  the  grade  of 
lieutenant.  Your  father  was  so  proud  to 
feel  that  a  boy  who  has  passed  his  law  exam- 
inations, who  has  been  graduated  from  the 
School  of  Political  Science,  is  well  prepared 
for  the  battle  of  life.  But  it  is  into  this 
other  struggle  that  you  must  first  enter, 
my  Charles.  I  know  that  you  will  honor 
us  all. 

And  I  thought  of  you,  Jean,  the  son 
whom  I  have  adopted  in  my  heart,  to  com- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         19 

fort.  You  remember?  My  poor  boy,  Guy, 
had  not  long  been  dead  and  I  was  still  look- 
ing for  him  everywhere.  One  summer  day, 
in  the  train  which  took  me  daily  to  my 
work,  a  young  man  got  into  my  compart- 
ment and  sat  down  opposite  me.  It  was  a 
shock  to  me,  but  very  sweet.  There,  be- 
fore me,  was  my  lost  child,  just  as  I  had 
known  him  when  he  was  eighteen.  The 
same  silhouette,  the  same  peculiarities  of 
physiognomy,  the  same  eyebrows,  eyes 
of  the  same  color.  I  longed  to  hear  the 
sound  of  his  voice. 

When  we  reached  Paris  I  could  not  re- 
sist longer.  I  went  up  to  you,  my  dear 
Jean,  I  touched  your  shoulder.  I  said,  so 
humbly:  "Excuse  me,  sir,...  But  you 
look  so  much  like  a  son  whom  I  have 
lost.  .  .  ." 

And  it  happened  that  you  had  just  the 
soul  to  greet  such  a  confidence.  You  told 
me  yourself  that  you  were  about  to  lose  a 
mother  you  adored,  your  grief  helped  you 
to  understand  my  own.  A  few  days  later 
you  led  me  to  the  bedside  of  your  dying 


20         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

mother.  She  could  well  be  proud,  indeed, 
of  the  five  children  who  surrounded  her 
then.  Yet,  when  she  spoke  of  you,  her 
voice  had  a  peculiarly  tender  note.  She 
said  with  such  appealing  warmth  that  she 
hoped  her  "little  Jean"  might  become 
mine. 

Thus  the  farewell  with  this  charming 
mother  made  between  us  a  bond.  How  is  it 
possible  that  a  boy  of  twenty  can  become 
the  friend  of  a  man  whose  temples  are  al- 
ready growing  grey?  Yet  that  is  what 
happened.  Sundays  when  you  came,  win- 
ter and  summer,  to  join  the  gay  little 
crowd  who  surrounded  my  son  and  my 
daughter,  you  were  the  only  one  who  found 
your  way  to  the  room  where  I  took  refuge 
in  solitude,  fearing  that  my  presence  might 
put  a  restraint  upon  the  freedom  and 
hilarity  of  the  young;  you  came  to  keep  me 
company;  you  took  pity  on  me. 

You  remembered,  as  an  own  son  might,  all 
the  anniversaries  whose  memories  sounded 
like  a  melancholy  bell  in  the  depths  of  my 
heart.  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  when,  your 


ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR         21 

two  years  of  military  service  finished,  you 
came  back  from  Saint-Mihiel,  seeming  a 
true  warrior,  after  the  two  years  of  iron 
discipline  imposed  upon  the  frontier  regi- 
ments. 

- 1  used  then  to  say  to  myself:  "It  is  my 
son  Guy,  just  as  he  would  have  returned 
to  me  from  the  army." 

To-day,  my  little  friend,  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  going  to  war  with  two  souls, 
yours  and  "his,"  two  valiant  souls,  made 
to  harmonize,  two  souls  guarded  by  their 
mothers  in  heaven. 

How  glad  I  would  have  been  if  I  could 
have  taken  your  head  a  moment  between 
my  hands  and  kissed  your  forehead  before 
you  set  out  this  time ! 

I  thought  of  you,  too,  my  dear  Max. 
You're  just  eighteen,  and  it  is  not  for  you 
that  the  bugles  sound.  Yet  I  know  you! 
You  will  join  the  others  as  soon  as  you 
have  learned  to  handle  a  sword. 

Do  you  remember  the  May  mornings 
when  you  used  to  ride  in  our  forest  with 
Robert  and  Marie-Rose  ? 


22         ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR 

Your  dear  mother  used  to  say  to  me: 
"Don't  give  him  too  wild  a  horse/* 

To-day  she  is  prepared  to  let  you  mount 
the  war-horse  which  will  carry  you  to  dan- 
ger, to  glory.  You  and  she  know  that  you 
are  the  son  of  the  man  who  was  at  the 
head  of  our  Government  at  a  time  when  it 
was  necessary  to  choose  between  sacrifice 
and  ruin,  and  who  conquered  the  egoism 
of  certain  madmen,  by  pleading  the  cause 
of  France. 

Carry  your  gayety,  like  a  lark,  into  the 
camp  where  you  are  going  now.  Max.  Our 
eyes  will  follow  you  skyward. 


August  3,  1914. 

My  dear  Son: 

How  often  in  my  life  I  have  been  the  one 
to  leave. 

Above  all,  beyond  all,  beyond  joy,  honor, 
profit,  I  seemed  to  be  called.  Sometimes 
the  call  came  from  within ;  sometimes  from 
without.  It  sounded  as  the  voice  of  those 
I  have  loved.  It  was  as  a  command  from 
the  forefathers  whose  names  I  could  not  tell 
you,  —  Bretons,  Normans,  —  these  ances- 
tors of  mine,  sea-men  who,  in  their  barks, 
their  ships,  had  roamed  at  large,  loving 
the  wind  as  they  fought  it  between  the  sea 
and  the  sky! 

Again,  for  months,  for  years  even,  at  a 
time,  the  imperious  summons  seemed  al- 
most silenced.  I  was  able  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  existence  with  an  ardor  pecu- 
liar to  those  who  touch  port,  knowing  that 
to-morrow  they  shall  embark  again.   Sud- 


24         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

denly  then  a  land  breeze  would  spring  up, 
tearing  me  with  it  away  from  everything, 
from  the  shelter  of  my  home,  from  the 
pleasure  of  laying  my  hands  upon  your 
childish  heads. 

I  was  impelled  to  leave. 

For  twenty  years  this  voice  of  my  an- 
cestors sounded  in  my  ears;  it  filled  my 
heart  with  longings  and  with  determina- 
tion. It  seemed  to  show  me  the  way  I  was 
to  set  out  upon. 

How  could  I  dream  that,  for  me,  the 
final  harbor  would  be  a  tomb,  the  square 
of  green  sod,  where  my  first-born  son  was 
laid  at  twenty,  his  hands  full  of  earthly 
hopes  ?  How  could  I  foresee  that  in  leaving 
us  his  soul  was  to  be  followed  by  another 
soul,  that  the  mother  would  join  the  son, 
and  that,  in  the  midst  of  my  journey,  I 
must  cast  anchor  between  two  mounds  of 
earth? 

One  thing  is  certain ;  since  I  have  learned 
to  distinguish  the  faint  breath  that  bows 
earthward  the  grass  above  the  graves,  the 
imperious  Voice  within  me  has  been  si- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         25 

lenced.  It  is  no  longer  to  me  that  it  calls 
when  the  Dead  make  known,  with  an 
irresistible  power,  their  will.  It  is  to  you 
now,  Robert,  that  it  must  appeal,  —  to 
you,  my  only  remaining  son,  the  last  of 
our  name,  —  you  who  are  the  final  ex- 
pression of  so  much  courage,  vanished  for- 
ever beneath  the  earth  and  under  the  seas. 

Shall  I  tell  you  when  I  realized  that  you 
had  been  summoned,  too,  by  this  voice  of 
my  Youth  ? 

It  was  one  night  last  year  when  you  said 
to  me:  "If  there  should  be  war  I  want  to 
serve  on  the  frontier." 

Amen !  May  this  command  of  your  fore- 
fathers guide  you  and  uphold  you  when 
the  moment  comes  to  choose.  Only,  don't 
forget,  to-day,  that  I,  who  was  formerly  the 
wanderer,  have  become  the  one  who  stays 
behind. 

Write  to  me  often,  my  boy. 


VI 


All  that  occurs  in  our  family  while  our 
sons  are  fighting  is  an  example  among  in- 
numerable others  of  the  effort  which  our 
present  duty  imposes  upon  us  French  peo- 
ple. 

In  the  South,  my  brother-in-law,  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Faculty  of  Surgeons,  has  been 
ordered  to  take  charge  of  a  Red  Cross  hos- 
pital. A  second  brother-in-law,  the  father 
of  Charles,  has  resumed  his  uniform  as 
Field  Surgeon.  My  two  sisters  are  both 
acting  as  nurses.  My  daughter  Marie- 
Rose,  my  niece  Alice,  have  entered  two 
hospitals  in  Normandy  as  assistants  of  the 
"Union  des  Femmes  de  France." 

I  have  been  given  a  special  task  at  the 
War  Office;  it  is  my  duty  to  receive,  and 
to  comment  upon,  the  news  which  the 
General  Headquarters,  in  accord  with  the 
Government,  prepare  for  publication  at 
midnight. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         27 

At  the  late  hour  when  I  come  in  search 
of  this  manna  which  to-morrow  is  going  to 
nourish  the  hearts  of  the  people  with  hope 
or  with  anxiety,  the  door  of  the  War  Office 
is  guarded  as  though  it  were  the  entrance 
to  a  fortress.  All  the  facade  is  aglow  with 
lighted  windows.  The  information  received, 
the  orders  sent  out,  leave  no  time  here  for 
rest,  night  or  day. 

On  the  ground  floor  of  the  Rue  Saint- 
Dominique  the  attendants  are  lined  up  as 
usual,  with  frock  coats  and  white  cravats. 
A  statue  of  the  Winged  Victory,  the  God- 
dess of  Samothrace,  spreads  its  wings, 
headless,  at  the  top  of  the  stairway. 

I  cannot  look  at  this  decapitated  splen- 
dor; the  symbol  is  too  unfortunate,  placed 
thus  upon  the  very  threshold  of  the  Palace 
of  National  Defence. 

My  thoughts  speed  on,  up  the  long  flights 
of  stairs,  they  push  open  an  unfamiliar 
door. 

Here,  before  the  war,  I  had  had  inspir- 
ing talks  with  the  Generalissimo,  to  whom 
we,  the  fathers,  the  old  men,  the  women, 


28         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

have  confided  all  the  hopes  of  our  country, 
our  race.  I  like  to  recall  his  image :  strong 
as  a  giant,  calm,  sure  of  his  own  power.  I 
like  to  remember  his  clear,  steady  gaze  and 
the  confidence  which  the  spirit  of  his  men 
awakes  in  him. 

In  the  shadow  of  this  Great  Chief  I  see 
you,  dear  lieutenant,  who  are  the  incarna- 
tion for  me  at  this  moment  of  all  our  war- 
ring youth. 

You  smile  at  me  and  you  say:  "Have 
faith.  We  are  commanded." 


VII 

Every  night,  before  attempting  to  sleep, 
I  read  over  the  two  bulletins  which  are  the 
warp  and  woof  of  my  existence :  the  mid- 
night communique  and  the  last  letter  from 
my  son. 

It  is  almost  three  weeks  now  since  you 
left,  my  child,  and  already  history  has  been 
re-made.  Liege  has  barred  the  way  against 
the  Germans.  The  English  army  has  come 
to  reenforce  our  defence  in  the  North.  In 
Alsace  our  flag  reappeared  and  was  again, 
alas,  torn  down.  On  the  highways  of  our 
open  country  which,  in  perfect  faith,  we 
considered  protected  by  a  treaty  of  honor, 
the  enemy  is  now  advancing.  We  are  re- 
treating, but  in  closest  contact  with  our 
adversary,  face  to  face,  our  arms  locked 
in  a  death-struggle. 

The  officers  of  the  Etat-Major  who, 
every  evening,  before  an  open  map,  com- 
ment for  me  upon  all  that  is  obscure  in 


30        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

the  communique,  keep  repeating:  "Our 
offensive  has  become  a  defensive,  but  we 
are  retreating  only  momentarily.  To-mor- 
row we  shall  have  touched  a  base  from 
which  to  swing/' 

I,  too,  feel  faith  in  our  troops,  in  our 
chiefs,  in  the  final  triumph  of  Justice.  So 
I  hasten  back  to  my  newspaper.  The 
stenographers  who  take  down  what  I  dic- 
tate follow  one  upon  the  other.  I  see  no 
change  of  expression  on  their  faces.  Al- 
ways I  try  to  keep  in  mind  as  I  compose 
my  article,  whether  the  news  be  bad  or 
good,  those  who  are  to  read  it  to-morrow, 
those  whom  I  would  guard  against  undue 
discouragement  or  too  great  elation. 

This  done,  I  walk  across  Paris  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night  already  paling  into 
dawn.  To  quiet  my  anxiety  I  walk  alone 
in  the  middle  of  the  streets,  silent,  sonorous. 
As  I  pass  your  door,  my  son,  I  greet  your 
memory.  I  cross  the  river  as  the  stars  are 
growing  dim.  And,  of  course,  before  clos- 
ing my  eyes,  I  re-read  your  last  letter. 

It  is  balm  for  me  who  try  to  be  a  giver  of 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        31 

balm.  These  little  pages,  scratched  oflF  with 
a  pencil,  reflect  the  wholesome  state  of 
mind  of  your  companions  and  yourself. 
Your  courage  is  not  abated  by  the  reading 
of  such  bulletins  as  you  find  pasted  on  the 
doors  of  the  town-halls.  Your  eyes  are 
turned  toward  the  enemy;  you  are  ab- 
sorbed in  the  task  before  you;  you  think  of 
naught  else  but  your  determination  to  be 
victorious. 


VIII 

August  23,  1 91 4. 

I  WAS  looking  forward,  my  dear  Robert, 
with  melancholy,  to  this  date  of  August 
23  d.  Ten  years  ago  to-day,  your  beloved 
brother,  Guy,  just  twenty,  left  us  forever. 

I  was  on  my  homeward  way  from  an 
exploring  expedition  in  Africa.  My  thoughts 
sped  on  before  me ;  on  the  platform  of  the 
railway  station  I  fancied  I  could  see  those 
I  love,  and  who  love  me,  standing  in  a  little 
group,  expectant,  joyous. 

You  alone  were  waiting  to  meet  me  in 
reality.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  if  I 
wished  to  look  once  more  into  the  eyes  of 
my  boy,  my  first-born. 

I  lived  over  those  hours  as  I  passed  be- 
fore our  house  in  the  forest,  the  house 
where,  from  one  year  to  another,  I  used 
to  write  down,  my  children,  the  marks 
which  showed  how  much  you  had  grown, 
as  you  stood  against  the  door  of  my  study. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        33 

Why  I  do  not  know,  but  this  memory  of 
happy  days  seemed  to  rise  up  as  I  went  on 
my  way  to  visit  the  graves  of  our  loved  ones. 

One  summer's  evening,  soon  after  we 
had  come  to  Uve  in  the  old  house,  and  when 
we  were  still  full  of  happy  plans  for  the 
future,  at  about  six  o'clock,  a  stranger  rang 
at  our  door.  Without  giving  his  name  he 
asked  to  be  received. 

I  greeted  in  him  an  elderly  man,  well  and 
honorably  known.  He  said  to  me : 

"Twenty-eight  years  ago  I  lived  in  this 
house  with  my  young  wife.  The  War  of 
1870  broke  in  upon  our  happiness  and  we 
were  obliged  to  escape  from  our  home. 
Once,  during  the  German  occupation,  how- 
ever, I  ventured  to  return  here  to  see  what 
havoc  the  barbarians  had  wrought  in  our 
nest. 

"The  vision  of  it  was  unbearable.  An 
officer  of  the  commissariat  had  installed 
himself  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard.  To 
settle  certain  payments  he  had  taken  out 
from  our  drawing-room  a  table,  a  precious 
bit  of  furniture.   His  boots,  which  he  did 


34        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

not  wish  to  dirty,  were  placed  on  a  cushion 
which  my  wife  had  embroidered.  Behind 
him,  on  the  lawn,  a  hundred  horses,  with 
their  riders,  halters  in  hand,  were  picketed. 

"Since  then  the  wife  of  my  youth  has 
died  and  I  have  never  had  the  courage 
to  return  here.  But  just  now,  happening 
to  pass  the  door  of  your  house,  —  our 
house,  —  I  saw  the  lights  in  the  windows.  I 
asked  who  lived  here.  I  was  told  your 
name.  I  rang,  and  I  came  in  to  ask:  'In 
the  spot  where  I  have  known  such  joy,  are 
you  in  turn  happy?'" 

Since  then,  often,  on  my  way  home  from 
Paris  in  the  train,  I  have  recalled  that  visit, 
always  with  something  like  a  shudder. 
When  the  moon  shines,  the  big  tree  in  the 
garden  hides,  with  its  sombre  shadow,  all 
that  lies  behind  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I,  too,  could  see  the  German  soldiers  there; 
the  phantom  horses,  the  paymaster,  with 
his  heels  dug  into  the  silk  of  a  cushion. 

Are  these  vandals  to  return? 

Just  now,  as  I  drove  along  the  road  by 
Mont   Valerien,   they  were   blowing  the 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         35 

houses  up  with  dynamite.  They  were  mak- 
ing the  way  clear  for  the  cannon's  aim. 

For  the  first  time,  as  I  sat  by  your  graves, 
I  have  not  regretted,  my  Guy,  that  you  and 
your  mother  should  have  entered  into 
peace. 

Watch  over  your  beloved  one,  who  is 
fighting  now,  and  know,  if  you  can,  that 
here  below  we  are  living  through  terrible 
hours  in  which  our  poor  hearts  sigh: 

"Blessed  be  the  Dead!" 


IX 


So,  then,  the  presentiment  which  op- 
pressed me  in  the  cemetery  is  to  come 
true? 

A  second  time,  since  I  have  been  able  to 
understand  and  to  suffer,  we  are  to  see  the 
heart  of  France,  Paris,  pierced  by  their 
ruthless  lances  ? 

The  other  evening,  when  I  reached  the 
War  Office,  they  let  me  pass  without  look- 
ing at  my  permits.  The  Court  of  Honor  was 
only  dimly  lighted.  The  official  attendants 
had  disappeared  from  the  hall,  where  they 
stand.  The  big  room  beyond  was  plunged 
in  utter  darkness. 

I  waited  there  a  long  time,  opposite  a 
statue  of  the  great  Carnot,  meditating,  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand.  Through  the 
transparent  curtains  before  the  windows  I 
could  see  a  military  automobile  standing  at 
the  entrance  steps,  and  its  lanterns  lighted 
feebly  this  statue. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         37 

How  heavily  this  tete-a-tete  weighed  upon 
my  weary  heart.  I  seemed  to  be  watching 
alone  with  him, who  had  organized  the 
victory. 

At  last  a  soldier  who  passed  with  a  pile  of 
documents  under  his  arm  said  to  me:  "The 
major  who  usually  receives  you  is  gone." 

Through  the  intricate  hallways  he  led  me 
to  a  little  office  where  I  found  my  habitual 
informant.  He  was  in  campaign  uniform.  He 
said  to  me,  with  a  solemn  kind  of  joy :  "The 
Minister  has  granted  me  the  favor  of  joining 
my  regiment." 

Then  he  asked:  "What  news  have  you  of 
your  son .? " 

"I  only  know,"  I  answered,  "that  he  is 
impatient  to  begin  fighting." 

"He  will  have  satisfaction." 

This  morning  I  understood,  as  did  the  rest 
of  the  people  in  France,  why  all  was  in  dark- 
ness last  night :  the  Government  has  left  us. 
Naturally  the  press  has  to  follow.  I  am  to 
remain  here  to  serve  as  a  bond  between 
our  Paris  "Matin,"  which  will  continue  to 


38         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

publish  an  edition,  and  the  new  Military 
Governor. 

I  have  known  him  for  years,  and  I  love 
him,  this  pilot  who  is  to  guide  us  in  the  pres- 
ent storm. 

In  the  days  when  he  was  governing  his 
African  island  and  when  I  myself  was  strug- 
gling in  the  mud  of  the  Nile,  we  used  to 
correspond. 

I  go  now  to  ask  him  to  direct  me. 

His  voice,  made  for  commanding,  seems 
to  chop  off  his  words  as  though  with  a  sword. 
He  says  to  me:  "To  all  who  approach  me  I 
insist  upon  this  one  simple  thought :  in  the 
present  struggle,  our  lives,  the  lives  of  those 
we  love,  do  not  count.  Such  is  the  price  of 
Victory." 

Then,  after  a  silence:  "Yesterday  I  saw  a 
regiment  of  whom  the  necessary  sacrifice 
had  been  asked.  There  were  ten  who  re- 
turned. They  brought  me  back  their  flag. 
Here  is  the  example  to  spread  abroad." 


The  first  one  of  those  I  love  succumbs! 
This  is  the  message  I  receive : 

Dear  Mr 

I  have  sad  news  for  you.  My  poor  brother 
Jean  was  wounded  by  a  bullet  in  the  head. 
Since  then  he  has  been  missing! 

Is  there  any  way  to  find  out  if  he  has 
been  carried  to  some  ambulance  ?  My  fam- 
ily know  nothing  of  this.  I  would  be  glad 
to  talk  with  you. 

This  is  what  I  have  been  able  to  learn 
more  precisely:  Jean  was  fighting  in  the 
North.  Bewildered  by  a  heavy  mist  his  regi- 
ment came  full  upon  a  mitrailleuse  in  am- 
bush ;  seven  hundred  of  his  companions  were 
shot  down.  Jean  was  safe.  But  as  he  was 
turning  back  to  join  his  major,  suddenly  he 
said:  "I  have  been  struck." 


40         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

The  bullet  had  hit  him  in  the  head.  He 
took  off  his  cap.  He  was  bleeding  terribly. 
He  said  again:  "It  is  nothing." 

He  was  seen  crawling  toward  a  little  wood 
in  which  he  hoped  to  take  shelter;  the  grove 
was  full  of  our  wounded.  The  Germans, 
knowing  this,  set  fire  to  it ! 

I  have  just  seen  Jean's  brother. 

I  insisted  to  him  that  wounds  in  the 
head,  if  they  do  not  kill  at  once,  can  heal; 
that  Jean  has  probably  been  carried  into 
a  German  ambulance,  or  made  prisoner, 
none  of  which,  of  course,  I  believe  myself. 

He  listened  to  me,  the  poor  brother.  He 
seemed  to  be  convinced.  Then  suddenly  he 
said  in  a  low  tone:  "But  suppose  that  they 
have  tortured  him  to  death  by  setting  fire 
to  the  wood  ?'* 

I  waited  until  he  had  gone,  to  weep. 

Is  it  true,  my  little  friend .?  Shall  we  never 
see  each  other  again.?  Have  I  known  your 
charming  spirit  only  to  lose  you .?  And  by  a 
refinement  of  cruelty  destiny  has  ended  your 
life  on  this  sacred,date  of  the  23d,  when,  ten 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         41 

years  ago,  I  closed  the  eyes  of  the  son  who 
seemed  in  you  to  have  come  to  life  again. 
I  lose  you,  and,  in  you,  I  lose  my  boy  a 
second  time. 


XI 


September  13,  1 914. 

I  HAVE  kept  from  Robert  the  news  that 
Jean  has  been  killed.  He  must  not  know 
how  dearly  victory  is  costing  us. 

"I  want  you  to  feel,  my  son,  how  steady 
Paris  has  been  in  learning  that  fate  has 
turned  in  our  favor  and  that  her  majesty 
shall  not  be  violated. 

"The  clear  Sunday  morning  when  Paris 
received  the  news  of  her  delivery,  there 
was  no  singing,  no  celebration,  no  excited 
crowds  filling  the  boulevards.  Paris  wanted 
no  other  hymn  of  joy  than  the  text  of  the 
official  communiques,  which,  after  being 
cursed  for  their  reserve,  had  suddenly  let 
fall  the  veil,  to  show  you  to  us,  you,  our 
combatants,  in  your  glory. 

"I  have  just  returned  from  the  battle- 
field. With  my  own  eyes  I  have  seen  the 
hideous  spectacle  which  you  describe  so  dis- 
creetly in  your  letters.  As  usual,  indescrib- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        43 

able  filth.  The  Germans  had  accumulated 
empty  cases,  stolen  clothes,  precious  objects, 
scattered  and  dishonored.  The  champagne 
and  cognac  bottles  were  as  numerous,  lying 
about  the  overturned  cannon,  as  the  empty 
shells  themselves. 

"I  saw  their  dead  abandoned  on  the 
earth ;  quantities  of  apples  which  had  been 
shaken  down  by  the  bombarding  were  piled 
up  around  the  bodies. 

"They  were  the  Giants  of  the  Guard. 

"By  what  miracle,  my  son,  are  you  able 
to  overthrow  them,  in  a  hand-to-hand 
struggle,  these  creatures  who  seem  to  tower 
above  you  with  all  their  height  and  with  all 
their  weight  ? 

"I  know!  You  are  acting  of  your  free  will 
and  they  are  merely  obeying  orders.  They 
are  seeking  a  prey  and  you  are  fighting  for 
an  idea.  -  j 

"  But  how  can  I  help  shuddering,  my  son, 
when  I  read  your  last  letter? — 'My  men 
are  now  seasoned  against  the  bombarding, 
the  constant  bursting  of  shell.  I  am  waiting 
to  test  them  in  an  attack  with  the  bayonet.' " 


XII 

Is  it  my  grief  over  Jean  or  is  it  the  dread- 
ful scene  of  the  battlefield?  For  the  last 
ten  days  I  have  lived  without  letters.  I  can 
no  longer  sleep. 

I  know  only  too  well  how  to  read  the 
communiques  not  to  understand  that,  van- 
quished on  the  Marne,  the  enemy  is  seeking 
a  revenge  on  the  Meuse. 

It  is  there,  my  Robert,  that  you  and 
your  comrades  are  making  your  resistance, 
at  what  a  cost ! 

Without  indicating  exactly  the  spot,  with- 
out any  date,  the  resume  of  yesterday  com- 
mended highly  your  valor.  It  concluded 
bluntly:  "On  both  sides  the  losses  are 
heavy." 

I  carried  that  weight  to-night  on  my 
homeward  way. 

At  the  hour  I  return,  all  the  lights  are 
extinguished  or  lowered;  the  moon,  tri- 
umphant, seems  to  make  of  Paris  a  vast 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         45 

sepulchre.  I  looked  at  this  pale  light  in 
the  heavens  and  I  thought  to  myself:  "You 
who  are  walking  here,  poor  man,  after  your 
day's  work,  and  who  go  now  to  seek  a  little 
rest  before  morning,  —  do  you  know  even 
whether,  at  this  moment,  somewhere,  on 
the  ground,  your  son  is  not  stretched  out 
now,  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  open?" 

The  anguish  was  so  intense  that  I  believe 
I  groaned,  like  a  lost  dog,  in  the  night. 

Yes,  life  and  death  no  longer  have  the 
same  value  as  of  old,  in  time  of  peace.  A  few 
months  ago,  my  Robert,  your  sister,  you, 
and  I  read  with  astonishment  one  of  the 
stories  of  '93  in  which  the  youth  of  France 
mount  the  scaffold  with  a  smile.  So  much 
courage,  so  much  detachment,  seemed  to 
us  almost  incomprehensible! 

To-day  we  understand.  You,  the  combat- 
ants, who  have  gone  to  the  very  source  of 
heroism  itself;  we,  who  love  you  and  who 
have  now  at  stake  more  than  our  own  lives, 
—  we  understand.  For  you,  as  for  us,  one 
thing  alone  matters:  the  "Day  of  Glory" 
must  dawn. 


46        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

This  is  what  you  think,  is  it  not,  and 
what  you  want  me  to  think,  my  son,  wher- 
ever you  are  —  beyond  the  moon? 


XIII 

September  20,  19 14. 

In  the  letters  which  he  wrote  to  me  regu- 
larly up  to  the  end  of  August,  Robert  made 
things  as  clear  as  he  could  without  disobey- 
ing his  chiefs  orders.  He  spoke  to  me  of 
what  he  himself  is  the  most  interested  in: 
his  men  and  their  manoeuvres. 

Yet,  I  have  no  great  merit  in  imagining 
that  doubtless  his  fiancee,  our  dear  Helen, 
has  probably  been  more  liberally  dealt  with. 
In  order  to  quiet  my  anxiety,  I  have  begged 
her  to  send  me  a  few  crumbs  of  her  riches. 
She  has  just  sent  me  a  veritable  Blue  Book. 
Since  the  beginning  of  August,  until  the  first 
contact  with  the  enemy,  our  Robert  has  re- 
lated here  the  story  of  his  soul. 

What  emotion  for  me  who  have  followed 
his  every  move  for  the  last  ten  days,  to  see 
how  he  avoids  in  his  letters  all  that  could 
give  his  beloved  a  shadow  of  anxiety.  To 
read  what  he  says,  over  Helen's  shoulder, 


48        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

one  would  really  think  that  he  is  telling 
about  the  manoeuvres  in  some  land  of 
dreams  —  where  the  flowers  grow  only  to 
be  offered  to  a  fiancee,  where  the  moon 
rises  only  to  light  up  her  apparition! 

If  you  return,  my  son,  from  this  en- 
chanted country,  where,  by  the  magic  of 
your  love,  the  shells  are  turned  into  roses, 
how  well  you  will  deserve  to  be  made 
happy  by  this  child  of  your  choice. 

If  you  are  to  climb  higher  and  ever  higher 
the  way  of  sacrifice,  to  the  height  where 
stands  the  cross,  then  gloiy  be  to  this  young 
love  which  fills  your  soul,  and,  in  the  horrors 
of  war,  enables  you  to  live  a  supernatural 
existence. 


XIV 

LETTERS    FROM    ROBERT    TO    HELEN 
August  to  September^  1914  (Fragments) 

August  2,  1914. 
My  little  fiancee  J  so  dear  to  me : 

From  our  first  halting-place  I  write  you 
my  first  letter.  The  way  has  seemed  very 
long  to  me  as  I  was  going  ever  farther  from 
my  happiness. 

We  were  herded  together  in  the  corridors 
of  the  train,  seated  on  our  canteens,  and,  as 
each  of  us  was  wearing  his  best  smile,  we 
looked  quite  like  some  pleasure  excursion 
starting  off.  The  peasants,  scattered  along 
the  track,  were  in  the  same  good  humor. 
We  asked  them:  "Who  will  bring  in  the 
harvest?'' 

Everywhere  the  answer  was  the  same: 
"The  women!" 

And  we  were  greeted  by  the  waving  of 
handkerchiefs. 


50        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I  found  some  of  my  old  comrades,  and  the 
contact  with  them  seemed  to  make  me  a 
soldier  again.  All  my  life  in  Paris  seemed 
already  so  far  away ;  but  you,  you  stood  out 
above  everything.  I  tell  those  with  whom  I 
have  become  acquainted  (one  grows  inti- 
mate quickly  nowadays  with  people  of  one's 
own  milieu)  that  I  am  engaged.  Every  one 
has  something  kind  to  say.  In  the  train  I 
ran  across  an  employe  from  the  factory.  He 
spoke  to  me  of  you  at  once,  timidly,  to  please 
me. 

"Were  you  able  to  bid  each  other  good- 
bye?" he  asked.  "How  sad  you  must  have 
been!" 

What  a  good  fellow! 

My  little  Helen,  I  think  of  you  constantly. 
I  listen  to  your  watch  on  my  wrist  and  to 
your  last  words  in  my  heart. 

August  3,  1914. 

You  wished  that  I  might  find  a  friend.  I 
have  found  one,  a  colleague  of  my  father. 
He  directs  a  large  illustrated  paper  which 
you  have  known  since  your  childhood;  he 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         51 

has  written  several  successful  plays.  For  all 
this,  this  veritable  Parisian  is  the  most 
simple,  the  most  cordial  of  companions  one 
could  imagine  for  such  a  campaign. 

We  shall  call  him,  if  you  will,  by  his  first 
name.  Lieutenant  Jean-Jose.  It  will  be 
easier  to  speak  of  him  in  this  way  when  I 
write. 

His  charming  devotion  to  his  wife  and  to 
his  little  boy  make  him  indulgent  of  my 
heart's  preoccupations.  With  him  I  shall  be 
able  to  talk  of  you  and  of  my  father. 

Tuesday,  August  4,  191 4. 

My  day  has  been  a  full  one.  I  had  to 
clothe  my  men,  arm  them,  distribute  the 
cartridges  and  other  stuff,  the  dishes,  the 
kettles,  the  food. 

I  have  worked  without  ceasing,  urging  on 
my  sergeants  and  my  corporals.  All  this 
can  be  told  in  a  line,  but  it  has  filled  sixteen 
hours. 

My  men  need  seriously  to  be  taken  in 
hand.  Individually  they  are  all  ardor,  all 
aflame ;  but  they  don't  hang  together.  It  is 


52         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

so  long  since  they  have  served  as  soldiers 
that  they  need  discipline.  I  shall  try  to  work 
them  into  shape. 

'  If  you  could  see  me,  my  Helen,  you  would 
not  recognize  your  cotillion  partner  of  last 
winter.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  very  dirty, 
having  almost  no  time  to  devote  to  my 
toilet,  and  then  I  have  handled  so  much 
metal,  so  many  boots,  that  my  hands  are 
quite  impossible.  I  scold,  I  try  to  be  fero- 
cious, terrifying.  But  these  are  habits 
which  I  shall  not  always  keep,  I  promise 
you. 

August  5,  1 91 4. 

We  know  now  what  we  are  going  to  do  in 
the  East  to  begin  with.  We  shall  form  a 
part  of  the  mobile  defence  of  a  fortress  — 
a  celebrated  bishopric  —  which  no  doubt 
played  an  important  part  in  your  composi- 
tion on  the  history  of  France  when  you  were 
given  good  marks. 

I  assembled  my  men  at  seven  o'clock.  I 
made  them  perform  one  or  two  exercises. 
Things  are  not  going  badly. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         53 

For  the  last  two  days  we  have  been  helped 
by  the  young  girls  and  women  who,  un- 
ceasingly, have  been  stitching  on  insignias, 
mending  our  trousers,  putting  numbers  on 
our  sacks.  The  men  were  enchanted. 

This  morning  the  girls  brought  us  flowers. 
The  men  put  them  on  their  rifles,  on  their 
caps.  The  whole  company  was  decorated 
with  enormous  daisies  and  dahlias.  The 
train  went  off  covered  with  branches. 

They  must  become  laurel  branches ! 

August  6,  1 914. 

We  are  waiting  the  order  which  will  sum- 
mon us  nearer  the  front,  and  it  looks  as 
though  we  might  have  to  curb  our  impa- 
tience for  eight  or  ten  days  more.  It  is  ex- 
asperating. Forgive  me  for  confessing  it, 
but  you  understand,  don't  you  ?  what  I  feel. 

I  don't  risk  anything  more  by  going  into 
battle  now  than  in  a  fortnight,  and  this  de- 
lay is  so  tiresome.  We  cannot  leave  the 
barracks,  as  the  order  to  move  on  may 
arrive  at  any  moment.  One  grows  irritable 
doing  nothing. 


54        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

My  men  will  be  in  condition  in  about  two 
or  three  days;  they  could  be  ready  now. 
They  already  respond  very  well  to  all  I  ask. 

The  other  morning  our  flag  was  presented 
to  us.  It  is  its  first  appearance,  as  our  regi- 
ment has  only  just  been  formed,  and  as  yet, 
naturally,  it  has  not  been  christened  by  any 
victories.  It  is  good  to  think  that,  if  we  are 
able,  we  shall  inscribe  the  first  names  on 
this  silk. 

I  talk  of  you  with  my  orderly,  a  fine  fellow, 
quite  clever,  and  who  was  to  have  been  mar- 
ried on  Saturday.  He  can  understand  me. 

I  long  to  go  to  battle  soon  so  that  I  may 
come  back  to  you  soon. 

Jugust  7,  1914. 

We  are  still  safe.  We  sleep  in  villages 
where  one  does  not  always  find  a  post- 
office. 

I  am  obliged  to  look  out  for  my  men,  their 
food,  their  poor  feet.  They  are  a  good  lot 
and  they  have  confidence  in  me.  They  know 
that  I  have  been  engaged  for  a  month  and 
they  are  devoted  to  me  already. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       55 

Yesterday  we  were  quartered  in  a  charm- 
ing village,  in  the  hollow  of  a  valley,  where 
a  tiny  river  winds  its  way.  Jean- Jose  and  I 
carried  our  canteens  to  a  field  and  there  we 
took  a  bath  in  the  stream.  It  was  delight- 
ful. In  the  evening  I  walked  out  in  the  vil- 
lage, for  my  service  first,  as  I  was  on  duty, 
and  then  for  my  pleasure,  as  this  little 
town,  sleeping,  with  our  fires  aglow  in  the 
open  air  and  the  full  moon  which  rose  in  the 
sky,  was  really  beautiful.  I  went  for  a  mo- 
ment into  the  church.  There  were  three 
old  women  kneeling  in  the  dim  candlelight. 
I  said  a  prayer  for  us. 

The  country  is  marvellous.  Flowers 
everywhere  and  of  all  descriptions :  bluets, 
enormous  daisies,  digitalis,  morning-glories. 

I  send  you  a  wild  carnation  which  this 
morning,  by  the  roadside,  I  picked  for 
you. 

August  13,  1914. 

To-day  I  received  four  letters  from  you. 
My  orderly  brought  them  to  me  trium- 
phantly. Like  the  others  in  my  company 


56        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

he  knows  from  whom  they  come,  and  he  is 
delighted  to  hand  them  to  me. 

The  other  morning  the  major  reviewed 
our  battalion ;  our  company  was  congratu- 
lated for  its  good  bearing.  We  were  the  only 
ones  complimented.  This  does  n't  seem 
much,  judged  from  afar;  yet  here,  with  the 
sun  so  exhausting,  the  difficulties  of  obtain- 
ing sufficient  water,  the  absence  of  all  re- 
sources, it  is  a  most  complicated  matter  to 
make  the  men  keep  their  shoes  clean,  with 
the  buttons  sewed  on. 

Last  year  when  I  went  to  serve  my  twenty- 
three  days,  I  still  felt  as  though  I  were  mas- 
querading in  my  uniform.  To-day  nothing 
remains  in  my  surroundings  to  remind  me 
of  what  I  used  to  be.  Thus,  for  example, 
this  morning  I  had  my  sword  sharpened  for 
the  second  time.  One  of  the  men  held  it  on 
the  grindstone  until  it  was  able  to  cut  mar- 
vellously well;  he  finished  the  blade  off  like 
a  needle-point.  As  a  matter  of  fact  my  best 
arms  are  my  men.  I  want  them  to  follow  me, 
and  they  are  all  determined  to  do  so.  They 
declare  to  me  that  I  shall  return  to  marry 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         57 

you,  and  I  know  that  in  the  hour  of  danger 
they  will  not  fail  me. 

August  15,  1914. 

I  shall  not  have  the  joy  of  going  into 
battle  on  my  twenty-seventh  birthday. 

This  letter  will  reach  you  long  after  the 
iSth  of  August;  it  will  tell  you  that  on  that 
day  I  was  thinking  of  you,  —  no  more  than 
usual,  but  with  greater  reverence.  It  used 
to  be  a  day  of  rejoicing  at  home,  because  of 
my  mother,  of  Marie-Rose,  and  myself.  My 
father  used  to  spoil  us  so. 

I  think  of  all  these  dear  ones  whom  I  have 
loved  and  whom  I  love.  In  memory  of  them, 
and  of  you,  I  would  like  to  have  done  some- 
thing brilliant  to-day.  But  here  we  still 
are. 

Don't  think  that  we  are  considered  as 
useless;  we  are  ready.  We  are  being  kept 
here  in  order  to  be  moved  to  the  spot  where 
we  can  be  most  useful  when  we  have  our 
first  clash  with  the  enemy. 

We  shall  triumph  because  of  your  prayers. 

Dearest !  may  I  ask  you  a  favor? 


58        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

The  23  d  of  August  is  the  anniversary  of 
my  brother's  death.  My  mother  used  al- 
ways to  have  a  Mass  said  for  him  on  that 
day,  and  I  did  the  same  when  she  was  no 
longer  here.  You  know  how  much  I  loved 
my  brother  Guy.  He  was  charming.  I  am 
sure  you  would  have  loved  him,  too.  You 
will  make  me  very  happy,  if,  on  the  23  d  of 
August,  you  pray  for  him  as  well  as  for  me. 

This  birthday  of  mine  has  been  rather 
dull.  We  got  up  at  three  this  morning  to 
lead  our  men  up  to  the  place  where  they  are 
digging  trenches.  We  are  working  in  all 
haste  now  because  we  expect  soon  a  big 
battle  in  the  North. 

This  morning  I  was  thinking  of  you,  fol- 
lowing you  in  every  act.  You  got  up  early, 
went  to  Mass.  I  saw  all  this  in  the  blue  sky, 
for  the  plain  where  we  are  camping  over- 
looks the  valley  of  the  Moselle,  and  the 
horizon  is  far,  far  away. 

Yes,  my  little  Helen,  I  shall  commend 
myself  to  God  when  I  am  under  the  enemy's 
fire  for  the  first  time.  I  shall  think  of  you 
then.   I  don't  feel  like  the  somewhat  cow- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         59 

ardly  person  who  is  converted  because  "One 
can  never  tell  what  may  happen!''  No,  I 
have  already  spoken  to  you  of  this.  I  have 
faith,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  if  ever  our  lives 
are  in  the  keeping  of  God,  it  must  be  at  such 
times  as  these  I  am  traversing.  I  have  al- 
ways prayed  in  the  solemn  moments  of  my 
life  and  I  shall  continue  to  do  so  now. 

This  evening  —  for  your  sake  —  I  have 
tried  to  make  myself  look  as  well  as  possi- 
ble. That  is  to  say  I  have  scrubbed  myself 
from  head  to  foot,  and,  after  shaving,  I  have 
put  some  powder  on  my  face.  It  is  the  first 
time  such  a  thing  has  happened,  I  can  as- 
sure you.  I  perfumed  my  handkerchief  with 
your  perfume  and  I  gave  an  extra  touch  to 
my  mustache. 

Jean- Jose  giggled  with  glee. 

August  18,  1 914. 

My  beloved: 

Fear  not!  I  am  leaving  now  after  four- 
teen days  of  preparation.  I  know  my  men 
thoroughly;  I  can  rely  on  them.  This  is 
great  good  luck.  I  am  very  calm  and  I  am 


6o        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

thoroughly  acquainted  with  my  service. 
Perhaps  we  shall  not  be  in  actual  fighting 
for  a  few  days  still.  All  this  is  the  fortune 
of  war. 

Excuse  me  if  I  say  to  you,  so  frankly,  that 
I  am  happy.  At  last  I  shall  be  able  to  do 
something.  It  is  an  unheard-of  joy  that  I 
should  be  able  to  fight  for  you. 

Dearest,  you  can  do  as  much  for  me  — 
more  even  than  I  can  do  for  you.  You  can 
pray  for  me  and  protect  me  by  your  love. 
Knowing  that  my  dead  are  watching  over 
me  and  that  you  are  entrusting  me  to  God, 
I  go  in  peace. 

August  19,  1914. 

We  have  advanced  slightly  to  the  north. 
We  are  now  about  fifteen  kilometres  from 
the  first  line  of  the  German  trenches.  Daily 
we  pay  honor  to  our  flag — a  touching 
ceremony. 

I  still  have  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  in  the  home 
of  an  old  couple,  childless,  and  unfortu- 
nately very  cross,  the  woman  especially. 
But,  in  such  cases,  one  always  fares  better 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         6i 

in  the  end  than  when  one  meets  at  first  with 
a  good  welcome.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  after  I 
have  asked  politely  for  a  table,  some  water, 
some  cooking-utensils,  and  have  been  re- 
fused them,  I  proceed  to  help  myself  without 
further  ceremony ;  this  right  of  commandeer- 
ing is  one  of  the  chief  advantages  of  war. 
You  see,  dearest,  I  am  not  always  the  over- 
polite  young  man  whom  you  used  rather  to 
make  fun  of.  But  my  men  are  not  given  to 
destroying  things.  I  am  very  severe  on  this 
point.  I  want  them  to  behave  courteously, 
respectfully. 

August  26, 1914. 

Still  nothing  serious  to  report.  To  be  on 
the  front  here  is  quite  restful.  The  village 
is  strongly  entrenched  and  it  commands 
the  plain  for  a  great  distance.  "They"  will 
not  pass  this  way. 

I  am  making  myself  a  coat.  I  discovered 
in  my  company  a  tailor  who  is  able  to  exe- 
cute such  a  garment  with  a  soldier's  hood. 
We  have  taken  the  buttons  and  the  lining 
from  an  old  dolman;  we  have  ripped  from 


62         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

two  caps  some  stiff  linen  for  the  collar.  With 
some  gold  braid  found  in  a  work-box  this 
man  is  going  to  make  me  the  regiment 
numbers. 

It  amuses  me  to  have  this  coat  put  to- 
gether, haphazard,  with  such  materials  as 
we  could  find  by  the  way. 

The  moon  no  longer  shines,  and  it  grows 
dark  early.  When  I  am  out  for  night  service 
I  look  up  at  the  stars  and  the  sky,  which 
you  may  be  gazing  at  too.  These  nights  of 
absolute  silence  are  impressive  when  we 
have  extinguished  our  fires,  so  that  they 
may  not  betray  our  presence,  and  when 
we  hear  the  "Who  goes  there?"  of  the  sen- 
tinels as  they  proceed  on  their  rounds. 

It  is  all  so  beautiful,  and  perhaps  for  that 
very  reason  I  feel  a  great  loneliness. 

Of  course  I  cannot  really  wish  that  you 
were  here  with  me.  You  would  be  too  un- 
comfortable and  I  cannot  imagine  you  here 
among  all  these  men.  .  .  .  But,  how  I  long 
for  your  apparition  ...  1" 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        63 
August  27,  1914. 

If  you  knew  what  good  your  letters  do  me ! 
When  things  begin  to  weigh  heavily  I  say  to 
myself:  "Helen  loves  me!"  —  and  I  take  a 
fresh  start. 

Constantly  during  the  day  I  kiss  your 
watch.  I  think  my  men  must  have  no- 
ticed this.  They  speak  to  me  often  of  you 
—  "the  lieutenant's  fiancee!"  When  one 
of  them  becomes  sullen  or  homesick  I  gen- 
erally hear  this  remark  being  addressed  to 
him  by  a  comrade:  "Don't  you  suppose  the 
lieutenant  would  rather  be  with  his  fiancee 
than  here?" 

And  that  ends  the  discussion. 

We  lead  a  life  in  general  which  absorbs  all 
our  energies.  Only  one  things  haunts  us  — 
the  memory  of  a  kiss !  It  lingers  in  the  mind 
like  the  caress  of  one  soul  for  another.  .  .  . 
As  such  I  bring  it  to  you. 

August  29,  1 9 14. 
I  beg  of  you  to  go  on  doing  things  as 
though  I  were  there,  so  that  I  may  know 
just  how  to  think  of  you,  and  so  that  when 


64        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I  return  at  last  to  your  side,  I  shall  find  the 
same  Helen  I  left  a  month  ago.  When  I 
give  orders  to  my  men  I  want  them  to  be 
executed  as  though  you  were  there  to  see 
all  that  they  do.  When  some  good  idea 
comes  into  my  head  I  am  as  proud  of  it  as 
though  you  were  able  to  give  me  your  appro- 
bation. .  .  .  Thus  you  are  a  part  of  all  I  do. 

Last  night  I  slept  in  the  bedroom  of  a 
little  child  who  had  left  her  dolls  there  —  an 
Alsatian,  with  the  big  bow,  a  cradle  full  of 
dollies.  It  made  an  amusing  contrast  with 
myself,  in  my  uniform,  on  the  bed. 

These  homes  into  which  one  casts  a  glance 
are  interesting.  They  reveal  something  of 
the  life  of  these  people  whom  one  sees  only 
once  in  passing.  Generally  we  are  given 
the  best  room  full  of  all  the  particular  treas- 
ures: the  wreath  of  orange  blossom,  the 
photographs  of  bridal  pairs,  gilded  vases, 
boxes,  and  a  profusion  of  plush  and  imita- 
tion tortoise-shell ;  lots  of  holy  pictures  and 
statuettes  and  rosaries.  They  seem  to  have 
kept  something  of  the  spirit  of  Jeanne  d' 
Arc 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  65 
August  30,  1 91 4. 

This  morning  I  took  a  delightful  walk. 
We  call  it  a  patrol.  I  set  out  at  three  o'clock 
with  six  soldiers  and  a  corporal.  We 
tramped  over  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods,  beyond  the  farthest  outposts,  to  see 
if  "they"  are  approaching. 

We  go  always  at  dawn,  for  it  is  at  sun- 
rise that  the  German  cavalry  scouts  are  in 
search  of  us.  It  was  charming,  but  we  had 
no  success.  The  pine  trees,  the  thyme,  and 
the  hay  smelt  wonderfully  good.  We  went 
through  the  outposts ;  we  passed  the  line  of 
sentinels,  who  asked  for  the  watchword. 
And  then  the  chase  began!  It  was  very 
amusing.  There  was  a  mist  and  we  started 
up  first  the  night  birds,  then  the  partridges. 
The  sun  rose  and  we  got  back  at  about  five 
o'clock  with  the  sound  of  the  first  church 
bells  ringing  the  early  Mass. 

All  the  time  I  was  thinking  of  you,  my 
beloved  little  fiancee.  In  the  sky  there  were 
mauves,  and  blues,  and  greys  which  you 
would  have  loved.  About  us,  and  behind  us, 
my  six  good  men  were  acting  as  your  guard. 


66        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

...  I  shall  give  myself,  heart  and  soul,  I 
shall  give  myself,  for  my  country  and  for 
you.  You  make  one  in  my  heart.  But  when 
I  shall  have  done  all  I  can,  then  I  shall  try- 
to  return. 

August  31,  1914. 

We  are  very  much  occupied  just  now.  My 
company  has  been  detailed  to  different  out- 
posts at  a  certain  distance  from  the  battle- 
field. They  are  set  to  guard  all  the  ways  of 
escape,  to  patrol,  inside  and  outside  of  the 
lines.  We  sleep  without  undressing  and 
armed.  This  has  been  going  on  for  three 
days.  It  might  be  fatiguing,  but  it  is  really 
amusing.  I  am  wonderfully  well,  abso- 
lutely well. 

We  are  free  to  decide  who  may  live  and 
who  must  die  in  this  village,  but  we  don't 
abuse  our  rights.  The  inhabitants  have 
grown  accustomed  to  us  and  they  do  all 
they  can  for  us.  They  give  us  eggs,  milk, 
fruit,  for  the  place  is  fairly  large  and 
there  are  still  some  chickens  left,  and  some 
cows. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         67 

I  keep  on  perfecting  my  men's  appear- 
ance. As  I  had  no  number-badges  for  my 
new  regiment,  —  a  fact  which  annoyed  the 
colonel  every  time  we  encountered  him,  — 
I  decided  to  make  some  myself.  A  girl  in 
the  village  who  knows  how  to  embroider 
accomplished  this  miracle  with  some  ravel- 
lings  of  gold  braid.  I  had  been  given  to  un- 
derstand that  this  young  person  was  an 
artist.  The  charge  for  her  work  was  six 
sous,  and  that  was  quite  sufficient  pay- 
ment. She  managed  to  create  for  my  cap, 
my  coat,  and  my  dolman,  three  cubist  fig- 
ures which  have  a  great  deal  of  local  color. 
At  least  I  now  wear  the  number  of  my  regi- 
ment. 

Your  ribbon  has  never  left  my  arm.  You 
will  untie  it  when  I  come  back.  I  send 
you  two  flowers  in  your  favorite  colors 
which  I  picked  this  morning.  The  four- 
leafed  clover  —  or  what  I  shall  ask  you 
to  consider  as  such  —  was  given  to  me 
for  you,  tied  up  as  you  see  it,  by  one  of  my 
men.  I  promised  to  send  it  to  you  from 
him. 


68        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

Postal  card. 
{The  date  has  been  scratched  out.) 

I  am  well,  perfectly  well.  Not  the  slight- 
est trace  of  fatigue,  and  our  spirits  are  ex- 
cellent. I  am  thinking  of  you  all  the  time 
and  I  hope  that  you  are  not  anxious.  We 
are  going  to  drive  them  back  surely  and  I 
shall  return  to  you.  Have  no  fear  of  it.  I 
am  thinking  of  you ;  I  love  you !  The  days 
are  splendid  and  the  nights  very  fine.  Last 
night  the  street  —  of  which  I  enclose  a 
picture  —  was  full  of  the  camp-fires  of  our 
soldiers,  and  above  was  the  moon  enveloping 
all  in  its  light. 

I  love  you !  I  hope  that  I  may  be  allowed 
to  say  this  on  a  postal  card  without  its  be- 
ing held  up !  I  am  thinking  of  you.  I  keep 
everything  that  comes  to  me  from  you. 
Your  watch  goes  well.  I  depend  entirely 
upon  it  and  I  nurse  it  as  though  it  were  a 
little  bit  of  you. 

I  send  you  my  deep,  all  my  deep,  great 
tenderness. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         69 
September  8,  1914. 

My  beloved : 

There  has  been  a  hole  in  my  letters.  There 
is  none  in  my  skin,  and  so  you  will  be  happy, 
though  you  have  n't  heard  from  me. 

Yesterday  we  passed  through  Nancy.  It 
was  extraordinary.  Every  one  was  so 
pleased  with  the  work  we  have  been  doing 
the  last  few  days  that  they  could  n't  make 
enough  of  us.  One  lady  was  distributing 
postal  cards  which  she  collected  afterwards 
to  mail  for  us.  I  scratched  off  two  words  to 
you.  A  young  man  took  our  pictures;  he 
promised  to  send  you  the  proofs.  Jean- 
Jose  declares  that  if  you  can  stand  this  like- 
ness of  me  it  is  a  proof  of  your  love. 

I  must  tell  you  that  we  had  been  five 
days  without  our  baggage,  —  two  nights  in 
the  trenches,  —  and  that  we  had  come  a 
long  way  in  the  sun  and  in  the  dust.  We 
were  very  dirty;  but  you  see  I  am  whole. 

At  night,  on  our  plain,  I  prayed  for  you; 
I  thought  of  you  as  I  looked  at  the  moon. 
It  was  so  beautiful.  Fancy  the  terrace  of 
Saint-Germain,  only  longer,  and  stretching 


70         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

out  before  one  the  fields  of  Lorraine  beyond, 
extending  to  Luneville. 

In  this  valley  they  had  wickedly  set  fire 
to  five  villages  which  we  saw  in  flames. 
They  were  bombarding  in  every  direction, 
taking  poor  aim,  as  they  did  not  bring  down 
a  single  church  steeple,  though  they  tried 
hard  enough. 

I  was  thinking  of  you. 

Do  you  know  that  picture  in  the  moon 
which  is  known  as  the  "kiss"?  It  was  there 
so  clearly  those  two  nights  and  I  never  grew 
tired  of  looking  at  it. 

September  14,  19 14. 

I  send  you  a  flower  which  I  picked  this 
afternoon  on  land  that  we  have  taken  from 
them.  I  kissed  it  and  kissed  it  again.  I 
wanted  you  to  find  on  it  the  trace  of  my 
love! 

It  was  delightful  to  feel  one's  self  advanc- 
ing on  ground  that  they  had  been  obliged  to 
abandon.  They  retreated  suddenly  and  to  a 
great  distance,  and  they  were  greater  in  num- 
bers than  we.   But  they  fled  just  the  same. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         71 

I  have  lived  through  interesting  days 
and  your  picture  has  protected  me.  You 
know  that  I  kiss  it  every  night  in  the  dark. 
It  was  exceedingly  complicated,  because  I 
had  to  unfasten  my  coat  in  the  rain,  but  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  for  anything  in  the 
world. 

.  I  told  you  that  once  when  I  received  one 
of  your  letters  in  the  firing-line,  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  an  attack,  I  leaned  up  against 
a  tree  in  order  to  read  in  peace  what  you 
had  written.  Don't  think  I  was  afraid.  I 
handed  the  command  over  to  my  sergeant 
and  stood  under  cover  only  in  order  not  to 
miss  a  word  from  you.  I  took  up  my  post 
at  once;  the  tree,  indeed,  had  served  rather 
to  keep  my  men  from  seeing  me  than  the 
shells  from  striking  me. 

While  we  were  stationed  in  the  woods, 
as  we  had  no  more  water,  idiotic  as  it 
may  seem,  in  spite  of  the  constant  rain, 
I  was  entrusted  with  a  reconnaissance  in 
one  of  the  three  villages  just  beyond  us,  a 
village  in  which  the  enemy  was  getting 
provisions. 


72         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

A  reconnaissance  of  this  sort  is  very 
amusing.  I  set  out  with  ten  well-picked 
men.  We  were  followed  by  a  dozen  others, 
armed,  of  course,  but  carrying  a  collection 
of  bottles  and  buckets.  We  crept  along 
quietly,  entering  the  gardens  by  the  back. 

There  happened  to  te  no  Germans  there, 
at  the  time,  which  was  less  amusing.  But 
it  delighted  us  to  see  the  heads  of  the  in- 
habitants looking  wildly  out  and  to  notice 
the  change  of  expression  on  those  unhappy 
faces  when  they  perceived  our  red  trousers. 
We  were  so  glad  to  be  able  to  say  to  them: 
"Don't  be  afraid!  We  promise  you  that 
they  shall  not  return." 

We  took  the  water  and  these  poor  people 
gave  us  everything  they  could  spare:  eggs, 
milk,  a  little  piece  of  butter,  and  the  last 
bottle  of  white  wine  in  the  village,  which 
an  old  man  went  and  hunted  up  for  us. 
They  would  not  let  me  pay  for  anything. 
They  were  amazed  that  I  did  not  let  my 
men  pick  any  of  their  fruit.  We  carried  off 
our  treasures  in  our  caps.  I  left  a  picket  on 
guard,  above  the  village,  at  the  entrance  of 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         73 

the  woods,  and  the  enemy  has  not  returned 
since. 

To-day  I  went  to  see  one  of  their  bat- 
teries which  has  been  hailing  shells  on  us 
for  two  days  past,  and  which  we  succeeded 
at  last  in  smashing.  I  will  try  to  bring  you 
back  one  of  the  shell  baskets  as  a  souvenir. 
It  would  do  very  well  to  hang  on  a  car- 
riage, for  umbrellas. 

What  brutes  these  Germans  are !  If  you 
could  see  the  state  the  villages  are  in  when 
we  reach  them  after  they  have  just  re- 
treated. They  have  not  had  time  to  set  fire 
to  them,  or  else  they  have  not  dared  to  do 
so,  fearing  reprisals.  But  they  have  broken 
everything  to  bits.  The  inhabitants  tell  us 
horrible  stories  which  are  only  too  true. 
On  their  disgusting  pointed  helmets,  on 
their  belts,  on  all  the  things  we  find  aban- 
doned, and  on  their  dead,  they  have  in- 
scribed everywhere  the  words:  ''Gott  mit 
uns''  (God  is  with  us). 

In  this  sad  little  village  they  have  none 
the  less  pillaged  the  church  and  installed  in 
it  their  stables.   It  is  a  sorry  sight  to  see: 


74        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

there  is  straw  on  the  ground,  —  in  what 
state  you  can  best  imagine,  —  the  statues 
have  been  overturned  and  broken,  the  altar 
is  upside  down,  the  flowers  are  strewn  be- 
fore it,  they  have  taken  the  priests'  robes 
and  mantles  to  cover  their  horses,  the  sac- 
risty is  full  of  empty  bottles ! 

I  don't  believe  there  is  another  people  in 
the  world  capable  of  acting  in  such  a  man- 
ner. We  are  rejoicing  in  proportion,  to  be 
regaining  the  ground  from  which  this  scum 
is  forced  to  retire.  And  also  I  say  to  myself 
that  it  means  drawing  nearer  to  the  moment 
when  I  shall  be  with  you  again. 

I  have  been  covered  with  mud  for  days, 
and  in  fact  we  are  all  in  the  same  condition. 
My  men  look  like  bandits.  Our  clothes,  our 
leather,  our  arms,  are  very  much  the  proper 
color.  It  is  all  very  picturesque,  but  not 
exactly  elegant. 

The  other  day,  as  we  were  passing  through 
Saint-Mihiel,  I  purchased  a  delightful  little 
muffler,  violet  and  chocolate.  It  is  having  a 
great  success,  for  one  of  the  essentials  of 
war  is  to  modify  a  soldier's  uniform.   We 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         75 

try  to  keep  as  warm  as  possible,  as  we  are 
out  of  doors  all  the  time.  We  are  preparing 
for  the  winter  nights. 

I  was  to  have  spent  these  September  days 
with  you  at  Fontainebleau.  I  am  thinking 
of  this  constantly,  and  I  am  so  glad  that 
"they"  did  not  get  as  far  as  that.  We  shall 
find  everything  just  as  we  left  it  there. 

September  17,  191 4. 

Yesterday,  dearest,  we  were  in  contact 
with  them,  through  our  scouts.  To-day  they 
have  disappeared.  We  are  in  the  woods,  on 
the  edge  of  a  plateau  which  overlooks  the 
plain  of  the  Woevre.  In  the  far  distance 
we  can  see  the  forts  of  Metz. 

The  village  is  enchanting,  with  its  old 
church  and  fourteenth-century  cloister 
perched  on  the  clifif.  Beneath  us,  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  the  plain  and  the  forest 
are  stretched  out.  This  is  the  way  which 
they  follow  stealthily  to  reach  our  frontier. 

We  are  installed  in  huts  left  by  the  Ger- 
mans, and  it  is  amusing  to  think  of  their 
having  made  them.  The  men  have  trimmed 


76        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

them  up  in  great  style  and  our  nigger  village 
would  delight  you.  Jean- Jose,  the  captain, 
and  I  have  chosen  a  round  hut  which  has 
quite  the  form  of  an  Indian  chief's  wigwam. 
It  is  comfortable.  Outside  there  is  as  much 
confusion  as  when  Cyrano  was  before  Arras. 

I  have  made  a  stool  out  of  some  branches. 
Jean- Jose  has  a  similar  seat,  and  together 
we  play  ecarte  on  a  drum.  Just  now  we  had 
our  tea  in  Russian  style,  with  slices  of  lemon, 
and  some  bread  toasted  before  the  fire  on 
a  bayonet:  all  in  the  face  of  the  enemy. 
Isn't  that  rather  smart?  Unfortunately, 
the  enemy  is  quite  heart-breaking;  he  sys- 
tematically refuses  to  fight  and  keeps  fall- 
ing back  without  firing  a  shot.  Now  and 
then  we  manage  to  seize  a  belated  patrol, 
but  to  beat  them  we  must  follow  them  into 
their  own  ground. 

Dearest,  the  rain  has  succeeded  in  making 
its  way  into  our  cabin.  I  have  had  to  come 
nearer  to  the  light  and  now  the  page  I  am 
writing  you  is  very  dirty.  Will  you  excuse 
it  ^  I  have  not  time  to  begin  again. 

I  talk  of  you  all  the  time  with  Jean-Jose, 


ON  THE  FIELD  GF  HONOR         77 

who  is  really  a  delightful  companion.  We 
play  cards  when  we  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
First  we  played  for  champagne.  We  gave 
that  up,  as  we  never  could  find  the  cham- 
pagne to  pay  our  debts.  Then  we  played 
our  turn  to  fight;  the  winner  was  to  be  the 
first  in  battle.  But  that  was  too  boring  for 
the  loser. 

I  have  just  lost  a  rubber:  a  dinner  which 
I  am  to  give  for  you,  and  Jean- Jose  and  his 
wife,  when  I  come  back.  Just  now  we  are 
gambling  for  our  supper ;  it  amuses  us. 

One  of  the  men  has  just  brought  me  a 
sketch  of  our  hut.  The  person  with  his  back 
turned  is  I,  deep  in  conversation,  before  our 
tea.  The  same  fellow,  who  is  a  sculptor,  has 
promised  to  make  a  drawing  which  I  will 
send  to  you. 

Heavens !  How  far  away  you  seem.  You 
couldn't  bear  the  muddy  creature  I  am 
now. 

September  19,  1 914. 

We  are  resting  just  now  in  a  village,  Jean- 
Jose  and  I.   We  shall  sleep  in  the  same  bed. 


78        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

in  the  home  of  a  kind  old  woman.  We  have 
sent  our  orderlies  to  sleep  in  a  barn  and  we 
have  made  a  splendid  fire  to  dry  ourselves 
by.  I  break  the  wood;  Jean- Jose  blows 
through  an  iron  tube,  which  they  use  in 
this  part  of  the  world,  instead  of  a  bellows. 
It  is  idyllic ! 

I  will  let  you  know  to-morrow  if  we  have 
had  pleasant  dreams. 

September  20,  1 91 4. 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  We  have 
just  been  wakened  with  a  start.  We  must 
be  off  at  five.  We  are  to  descend  into  the 
plain  and  wait  there  for  orders.  If  they  are 
what  I  hope  they  will  be,  dearest,  the  mo- 
ment I  have  so  longed  for  is  near.  Do  not 
be  anxious.  I  will  come  back  to  you. 

Such  love  as  ours  is  bound  to  endure. 


XV 

This  afternoon,  at  Versailles,  we  closed 
our  meeting  of  the  County  Councillors. 
One  of  my  colleagues  brought  me  back  to 
Paris  in  his  motor. 

It  is  only  six  o'clock,  so  I  decide  to  stop  at 
my  office  before  dinner  to  see  if  there  is  any 
news.  My  office  is  empty.  The  maps  of  the 
Etat-Major  are  laid  out  for  my  evening 
task,  the  last  mail  is  on  the  table  in  its  usual 
place. 

Before  I  have  had  time  to  sit  down  my 
attention  is  drawn  to  two  letters  which 
both  look  alike,  in  official  envelopes,  un- 
sealed, without  stamps,  addressed  hastily 
and  by  the  same  hand.  A  postal  card  from 
the  armies  protrudes  from  under  them. 

It  is  not  my  boy's  writing  on  this  card, 
but  his  signature  is  at  the  bottom.  He  has 
dictated  the  following: 


8o        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

Military  Hospital,  Alpha, 
Saturday,  September  26,  1914. 

My  dear  Father : 

I  have  been  wounded  in  the  arm,  but  that 
is  nothing.  Another  bullet  passed  through 
my  lungs;  the  spine  is  bad.  This  is  tire- 
some, for  my  legs  are  paralyzed.  But  they 
tell  me  that,  as  the  wound  is  a  clean  one, 
I  shall  recover.  It  will  take  time.  That  is 
all. 

I  am  able  to  write  to  you  owing  to  the 

kindness  of  Mr.  N ^  one  of  the  officials 

of  this  hospital. 

Beneath,  the  signature  unsteady. 

He  is  not  dead! 

Let  us  look  at  the  letters. 

I  chance  to  fall  upon  the  one  which  he 
tenderly  hoped  I  might  read  first. 

I  don't  know  the  name  of  the  military- 
doctor  who  signed  it. 

This  letter  was  written  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  battlefield  a  short  time  after  my  boy 
had  been  picked  up: 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        8i 

September  23,  19 14. 
{No  place  indicated.) 

My  dear  Sir : 

I  am  writing  to  you  at  the  request  of  your 
son,  seriously  wounded  in  the  chest  yester- 
day morning.  His  wound,  however,  is  not 
mortal ;  it  will  be  a  question  of  time  and  of 
care.  He  is  at  present  in  an  ambulance  and 
he  will  probably  be  moved  on  in  a  few  days. 
He  is  under  the  care  of  a  good  surgeon  and 
he  wants  for  nothing. 

Louis  P 

(Doctor  of  the  ist  class,) 

"The  wound  is  not  mortal .  .  ."  "He 
will  probably  be  moved  ..." 

Is  this  true.?  Then  why  the  second 
letter? 

I  open  it ;  it  bears  the  same  date  as  the  first. 

Sir: 

Just  now  I  wrote  to  you  by  your  son's 
bedside,  almost  under  his  dictation,  a  let- 
ter which  could  leave  you  a  certain  amount 
of  hope.  To  be  sincere  I  must  deny  what 


82        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I  have  said.  I  would  not  do  so,  as  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  the  first  to  bring  you  such 
bad  news,  but  it  would  not  be  loyal  on  my 
part  to  leave  you  under  the  impression  of  a 
message  which  you  had  the  right  to  suppose 
sincere. 

Your  son  bears  with  great  courage  such  a 
wound  as  his  is.  His  only  thought  is  for  his 
family. 

Please,  sir,  let  me  send  you  my  affection- 
ate sympathy  for  your  grief  as  a  father  at 
such  a  time,  and,  may  I  add,  my  cordial 
admiration  for  your  son. 

Louis  P 


It  is  the  death  decree  . . .  ! 

Thank  you,  both  of  you,  thank  you.  You, 
a  stranger,  who  with  such  fraternal  pity 
have  taken  the  time  to  write  me  the  truth, 
and  you,  my  son,  who  have  lied  to  me. 

The  card  and  the  two  letters  are  there 
open  on  the  table.  I  don't  need  to  read 
them  again.  I  don't  wring  my  hands,  I  don't 
cry  out,  "My  God !"  I  am  waiting  for  that 
feeling  of  emptiness  to  leave  my  head.  My 


;  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        83 

other  boy  and  his  mother  I  have  followed  to 
the  grave,  but  an  instant  ago  I  still  had  a 
son.  Now  he  has  fallen  beside  the  others! 
It  takes  a  moment  for  me  to  steady  myself 
under  the  shock. 

I  must  go  and  tell  my  colleagues. 

In  the  editing-rooms  downstairs,  I  show 
them  the  postal  card. 

"This  is  the  letter  of  a  hero!" 

"And  this  one?" 

I  read  it  aloud  to  them. 

I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  shall  do.  I 
think  I  shall  go  up  and  write  my  article. 
Tenderly,  a  hand  is  laid  on  my  shoulder;  a 
voice  says:  "You  are  going  to  your  boy!" 

I  look  at  the  comrade  who  has  spoken 
these  words  as  though  it  depended  on  him^ 
to  dispel  the  difficulties  which  bar  the  way. 
Not  that  I  am  not  longing,  my  child,  to  be 
near  you,  while  you  live,  or  if  you  are  gone ; 
but  just  now  I  seem  to  have  no  individual 
existence,  to  be  only  the  reflex  of  my 
father  and  his  forefathers.  Sea-men,  all  of 
them,  they  put  duty  above  everything  else : 
a  rigid  discipline.  It  has  been  so  generally 


84         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

understood,  I  myself  have  explained  to  so 
many  unfortunate  parents,  that,  when  our 
sons  fall  on  the  battlefield,  it  is  impossible 
to  go  to  them.  I  can't  believe  that  such  a 
favor  is  to  be  granted  me. 

Some  one  says:  "Yes!  yes!  There  is  a 
train  from  the  Gare  de  I'Est  at  half-past 
eight.  ...  Of  course  you  must  have  a  permit 
from  the  Governor  of  Paris.  .  .  .  Hurry  and 
find  him.  ...  If  you  are  in  luck  you  should 
be  able  to  leave  to-night. " 

I  start  at  those  words  ...  "If  you  are  in 
luck!...  in  luck!" 

How  kind  they  are.  How  eager  to  help 
me.  The  attendants  are  standing  near  the 
door.  .  .  .  They  look  at  me  and  bow  as  I  go. 
I  thank  them  and  say:  "Why,  it  is  rain- 
ing!" 

I  am  still  in  the  vestibule  under  cover.  It 
is  not  rain,  but  a  cold  perspiration  that  wets 
my  brow  .  .  .  my  hands. 


XVI 

I  AM  in  luck. 

The  Governor  receives  me  at  once. 

"General,"  I  say  to  him,  "when  I  came 
to  see  you  two  weeks  ago,  you  said  to  me: 
'One  thing  alone  is  of  consequence:  that  we 
give  ourselves,  all  we  have,  and  all  we  love.' 
—  It  is  done.  My  son  has  been  mortally 
wounded!" 

"My  poor  friend!" 

I  felt  a  sob  in  my  throat  as  he  said  this, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  me,  this  chief,  so 
emaciated  that  he  seems  more  like  a  thought 
than  a  body  in  action. 

"Where  did  your  son  fall?"  he  asks. 

I  name  the  place,  yonder,  so  far  away  in 
Lorraine.  .  .  . 

He  answers:  "All  depends  on  General 
Headquarters.  I  shall  do  what  is  necessary 
.  .  .  the  best  will  be  a  laisser-passer  for  a 
motor.  .  .  .  But  you  can't  possibly  have  it 


86        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

before  tomorrow.  .  .  Try  in  any  case  to 
leave  by  train." 

I  am  in  luck. 

At  the  station  I  show  my  letters  to  the 
officials.  They  allow  me  to  take  the  train. 
I  don't  attempt  to  look  out  of  the  window 
to  see  what  ravages  the  enemy  may  have 
made  in  the  regions  we  are  passing  through. 
...  I  am  looking  within  .  .  .  looking  for  my 
child. 

I  cannot  even  ask  myself,  "Is  he  going  to 
live?"  — but  only,  "Will  he  be  still  alive?" 
.  .  .  "Shall  I  find  him  still  on  his  bed? .  .  . 
On  his  bed,  his  eyes  closed,  his  hands 
clasped.  ...  !" 

How  I  long  to  see  him  one  last  time. 


XVII 

Though  I  have  been  in  all  parts  of  the 
world,  I  happen  never  to  have  visited  this 
historic  town.  Yet  it  plays  a  great  part  in 
our  imaginations  from  the  time  we  are 
children. 

When  I  was  a  schoolboy  it  used  to  appear 
to  me  like  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  gigantic 
portal  which  defends  our  native  land.  It 
seemed  to  tower  above  the  dark  shadow 
which  our  schoolmasters,  after  the  War  of 
1870,  used  to  spread  over  Alsace-Lorraine. 
I  used  to  long  to  be  among  the  soldiers  who, 
one  day,  would  tear  away  this  veil  of  crape 
which  had  covered  the  face  of  France. 

Ah!  if,  in  those  days,  some  one  had  said 
to  me:  "This  glory  is  reserved  for  your  son, 
but  you  will  shroud  him  in  Victory  ..." 

We  are  not  far  off  now.  I  can  distinguish 
the  town:  rows  of  trees  which  descend 
abruptly  into  the  moats  full  of  water,  tiled 
roofs,  crowded  under  shelter  of  the  cathe- 


88        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

dral,  and,  at  a  little  distance  beyond,  on 
an  elevation,  the  hospital.  I  recognize  it, 
for  my  boy  had  described  it  in  one  of  his 
first  letters. 

He  was  quartered  at  that  time  in  the 
barracks  which  I  can  see  yonder  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  His  companions,  like  himself, 
were  preparing  for  action.  Now  he  has 
mounted  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  he  lies  there 
on  his  back,  his  face  turned  heavenward, 
side  by  side  with  those  whose  campaign  is 
ended. 

"O  God!  Grant  that  I  may  see  my  son, 
a  last  time!" 


XVIII 

The  major  in  command  of  the  railroad 
station  offers  me  his  automobile.  We  cross 
the  town  like  the  wind ;  we  speed  past  a  poor 
little  chapel  outside  the  walls,  a  facade  of 
pasteboard  decorated  with  a  cluster  of  flags. 
Before  the  open  door  some  soldiers  are  bear- 
ing a  coffin. 

"Can  it  be  Robert?'' 

No !  They  tell  me  it  is  not  he,  so,  forward, 
on  the  way. 

The  chauffeur,  who  notices  my  emotion, 
speaks  to  me  gently.  He  is  a  young  Lorraine 
priest.  The  day  before  yesterday  his  native 
village  was  bombarded  while  his  parents 
were  in  the  presbytery.  Since  then  he  has 
had  no  news  from  them. 

He  says  to  me:  "I  am  praying  for  them! 
I  shall  pray  for  your  son." 

It  is  the  last  turning  in  the  road.  Here 
is  the  iron  grating  before  the  hospital,  and 
the  picket  who  guards  it.  At  the  back  of 


90        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

the  garden  stands  a  tall  building.  A  clock 
strikes  the  quarter-hours,  heard  by  those 
who  lie  on  their  beds,  dying. 

I  am  shown  to  the  office  of  the  director, 
who  had  been  kind  enough  to  write  to  me. 
I  can  hear  his  step  approaching. 

He  is  charming,  this  unknown  friend,  with 
his  little  bonnet  de  police^  his  smile,  half- 
hidden  by  a  beard  touched  with  gold. 

He  says  to  me:  "Take  heart.  You  shall 
see  him." 

"Will  he  be  able  to  know  me?"  I  ask. 

"I  left  him  only  an  hour  ago,"  he  an- 
swers. "He  did  not  imagine  you  were  so 
near.  How  glad  he  will  be  to  see  you." 

The  director  wants  me  to  stop  a  moment  in 
his  office  to  rest,  to  compose  myself.  I  must 
not  go  into  the  sick-room  looking  as  I  do. 

I  obey. 

On  the  desk  are  piled  up  death  certificates. 
I  can  look  at  them  calmly  now.  I  know  that 
his  name  is  not  on  the  lists. 

How  ungrateful  we  are.  I  know  that  he  is 
living,  that  he  will  be  able  to  speak  to  me, 
and  already  I  hunger  for  a  greater  joy. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         91 

I  ask,  with  a  feeling  of  shame:  "Is  there 
no  hope?" 

The  handsome  director,  no  longer  smiling, 
answers  evasively:  "You  know  what  his 
wound  is  .  .  .!" 

I  know.  If  by  some  miracle  his  heart 
were  to  go  on  beating  for  several  years  more, 
he  would  be,  from  his  hips  to  his  toes,  like 
one  already  dead.  He  does  not  deserve  such 
torture. 

I  close  my  eyes.  I  summon  all  my  cour- 
age. I  must  not  be  a  coward. 

We  can  go  now  to  see  him. 

In  the  narrow  hallway,  the  second  room 
to  the  right  is  his.  Between  us  there  is  only 
a  door  to  separate  us  now.  The  direc- 
tor passes  in  front  of  me,  to  tell  him  that 
I  am  there.  But  I  cannot  wait.  I  follow 
him. 

Opposite  me,  near  the  window,  stands  an 
empty  bed.  To  the  right,  in  the  corner, 
another  bed. 

He  is  there.  His  face  is  toward  the  wall. 

Hearing  the  director's  voice,  he  turns 
slowly.  He  sees  us  both.  He  lifts  his  eyelids 


92         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

and  his  lips  move.  He  speaks:  "You? 
How  good  of  you  to  come  .  .  ." 

"My  boy!" 

The  director  has  vanished.  I  see  my  child. 
I  touch  him.  We  are  together. 


XIX 

He  had  stood  by  my  side  when  I  closed 
his  brother's  eyes,  and  his  mother's.  He 
knows  what  it  is  to  clasp  to  one's  heart  a 
lifeless  form. 

He  tries  to  put  his  arms  around  my 
neck.  The  effort  is  too  much  for  him.  The 
time  has  passed  now,  when  he  can  give  this 
sort  of  proof  of  his  affection  to  those  he 
loves  here  below. 

Does  he  know  that  through  his  rough 
hospital  shirt  I  can  feel  his  arms,  his  strong 
arms  which  were  my  pride,  withered  now 
and  stiff  already? 

He  looks  at  me  with  such  depths  of 
gravity  in  his  eyes! 

"Robert,  my  boy!  What  an  honor  you 
are  to  us." 

He  does  not  answer.  He  sees  that  my 
lowered  eyes  are  fixed  upon  his  hands, 
stretched  out  on  the  sheet. 

Suddenly,  as  though  he  were  rising  from 


94         ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

the  shadows  of  some  nightmare,  he  says: 
"It  does  n't  mean  an  invalid's  chair." 

And  he  smiles.  He  smiles  as  he  did  on  the 
threshold  of  his  house  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli 
when  we  parted  and  he  said  tome:  "You 
know  that  I  shall  do  my  duty,  and  a  little 
more,  if  I  have  the  chance." 

Oh!  my  child,  I  dare  not  question  you. 
"What  do  you  mean? ...  'It  won't  be  an 
invalid's  chair'?" 

Was  it  a  word  of  hope  that  escaped  your 
poor,  pale  lips?  Of  hope,  in  your  misery! 

Do  you  believe  that  you  will  be  able, 
some  day,  to  rise  again  from  this  bed? 
That  you  will  be  able  to  walk  as  other 
men,  elated  by  your  young  love  ?  Or  was  it 
an  expression  of  resignation,  of  irony,  at 
your  own  fate  ? 

I  know  you,  and  your  generous  soul;  you 
spoke  thinking  of  me  only.  You  want  me  to 
say  to  myself:  "Our  lot  might  have  been 
worse.  In  this  condition  he  might  have 
survived." 


XX 

The  director,  with  his  golden  beard, 
comes  to  get  me,  so  that  I  may  go  with 
him  to  see  the  head  doctor. 

Behind  this  other  desk,  where  Hfe  and 
death  are  administered,  I  find  another 
friend. 

Thirty  years  of  life  in  the  colonies  has  pre- 
pared him  for  the  fortunes  of  war.  His  ex- 
periences have  made  him  human.  A  Breton 
by  race,  he  has  the  sailor's  temperament  and 
seems  more  like  a  seafaring  man  than  a 
practicing  physician. 

I  feel  as  though  I  were  on  the  bridge  of  a 
ship.  He  has  endured  long  absences  in  far- 
away posts  where  he  dreamed  of  a  distant 
home.  In  the  misery  of  such  loneliness  he 
has  known  what  it  is  to  love.  And  so  he  can 
imagine  how  heart-breaking  this  final  sepa- 
ration is. 

His  fraternal  kindness,  I  feel,  will  make 
my  way  easier. 


96        ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"Your  son?"  he  asks.  "Have  you  seen 
him?  He  is  what  I  call  a  hero.  There  are 
many  brave  men  on  the  battlefield,  but 
when  they  are  brought  here  there  is  a  let- 
ting-down.  He  knows  exactly  his  case,  yet 
he  has  never  shown  any  sign  of  weakness. 
When  the  Governor  of  the  town  came  to  see 
me,  I  said  to  him,  *I  have  a  lieutenant  here 
who  was  plucky  under  fire  and  who  is  turn- 
ing a  brave  face  now  toward  death!'  The 
Governor  asked  to  see  your  son.  He  compli- 
mented him  on  his  conduct.  It  pleased  the 
lieutenant." 

"It  pleases  me  too,"  I  say. 

He  nods  approval  and  asks:  "Are  you 
going  to  remain?" 

"If  I  only  could..." 

"It  is  contrary  to  all  rules.  , .  .  But  you 
are  a  Colonial,  you  can  get  on  with  little 
and  be  satisfied.  You  can  share  pot-luck 
with  us.  We  shall  have  a  bed  put  up  for 
you." 

And  as  this  man  is  too  loyal  to  disguise  the 
truth  he  adds:  "No,  no.  You  won't  be  im- 
posing upon  us,  for,  alas,  your  stay  here  will 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        97 

not  be  a  long  one.  We  can't  nourish  the 
Heutenant,  nor  even  quench  his  thirst. 
Everything  we  give  him  is  useless.  He  will 
hold  out  to  the  end  of  his  strength.  And  he 
was  strong.  Well,  I  shall  see  you  to-night 
at  dinner." 
Across  his  desk  he  holds  out  his  hand. 


XXI 

It  is  my  next  duty  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  head  nurse. 

The  director  says  to  me :  "  It  is  she  who 
manages  this  whole  lower  floor.  She  is  a 
remarkable  woman.  Her  hands  are  tender, 
when  she  touches  all  these  poor  sufferers, 
and  yet  she  is  astonishingly  powerful.  The 
wounded  call  for  her  when  they  need  to  be 
lifted  up  out  of  their  beds.  Your  son  likes 
her  and  they  say  that  she  is  especially  good 
to  him." 

I  enter  the  place  where  the  orderlies 
are  preparing  all  that  is  needed  for  their  pa- 
tients, and  where  they  wash  the  soiled  linen. 
They  rub  and  scrub,  they  weigh  things,  and 
heat  others,  and  call  and  discuss. 

A  woman's  voice,  urging  them  to  make 
haste,  quiets  this  confusion. 

It  is  the  head  nurse.  I  look  at  her  with 
emotion.  Opposite  me,  in  the  last  terrible 
moments,  she  will  stand  by  my  child's  bed- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR         99 

side ;  a  woman  of  France.  She  will  take  the 
mother's  place,  the  place  of  the  sister  who 
cannot  be  here,  of  the  fiancee  whom  he  will 
not  see  again. 

The  first  encounter  with  this  profes- 
sional of  suffering  is  rather  brusque.  She 
devotes  herself  valiantly  and  zealously  to 
the  wounded ;  she  has  no  time  to  waste  with 
the  parents.  I  understand  that.  I  thank  her 
and  ask:  "You  perhaps  have  some  one  fight- 
ing yourself?" 

Without  lifting  her  eyes  from  some  liquid 
she  is  straining,  she  answers :  "  My  only  son. 
I  am  without  news.  So  is  everybody,  for 
that  matter.  I  don't  let  it  affect  me.  What 
would  become  of  us  here  if  we  gave  up  to  our 
feelings?" 

She  asks  this  question  so  roughly,  with 
such  bravado,  that  I  know  she  is  n't  heart- 
less in  reality.  So  I  kiss  one  of  her  poor 
hands,  so  ready  to  help  those  who  need  her 
in  their  suffering. 

Such  things  are  unheard  of  here.  She  is 
astonished.  She  lets  me  see  that  she  is  a 
woman  and  a  mother: 


loo       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"My  son?''  she  says.  "It  seems  to  me  I 
am  touching  him  when  I  lift  one  of  them. 
Yours  is  very  fine.  He  is  a  martyr.  No  one 
ever  hears  him  complain.  He  is  still  so  par- 
ticular about  how  he  looks.  While  you  were 
with  the  head  doctor  he  called  me.  He 
wanted  me  to  tidy  him  up,  on  account  of 
you,  I  suppose," 


XXII 

I  HAVE  to  pass  through  the  principal 
ward  to  reach  my  child.  There  are  men 
here  who  can  go  no  farther.  Many  of  them 
are  merely  waiting  the  end.  They  know  that 
they  are  still  living  only  because  of  their 
suffering. 

Their  iron  bedsteads  are  lined  up  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left,  the  heads  against  the 
windows,  the  feet  toward  us.  The  white 
sheets,  the  rough  grey  blankets,  seem  an 
emblem  of  the  union  here  of  care  and  of 
misery. 

Some  of  these  poor  men's  heads  are  com- 
pletely hidden  by  the  bandages  from  under 
which  the  eyes  gaze,  dark,  fixed  circles. 
Some  have  drawn  the  sheets  over  them  like 
a  shroud;  some  sleep,  their  mouths  open; 
some  hold  out  for  bandaging  a  cavity,  grey 
on  the  edges;  some  are  drifting  away;  some 
are  beyond  recall. 

I  feel  ashamed  to  go  through  this  place  of 


"' fd2''-"aN  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

suffering  without  stopping,  without  speak- 
ing to  any  one,  as  though  I  were  indifferent 
to  the  agony  of  others,  as  though  I  did  not 
feel  in  the  air,  heavier  than  this  atmosphere 
of  fever,  the  weight  of  their  thoughts. 


XXIII 

From  what  depths  has  this  childhood's 
memory  risen  ? 

As  I  came  into  your  ward,  my  boy,  I  re- 
membered the  long-ago  days,  when,  after 
the  birth  of  a  new  little  brother,  my  mother 
used  to  send  for  us.  She  was  so  fresh  then, 
my  mother,  my  aged  mother,  who  happily 
is  not  alive  to-day.  So  sweet,  in  her  snowy 
bed,  with  a  touch  of  pink  in  her  cheeks. 

This  military  hospital  has  outdone  itself 
for  you,  my  boy.  They  have  given  you  a 
better  place.  You  are  no  longer  in  the 
shadow  of  a  wall.  Your  bed  stands  near  the 
window  now.  At  least  my  presence  has 
served  to  bring  you,  in  your  last  hours, 
nearer  to  the  light. 

When  you  see  me  your  whole  face  be- 
comes radiant,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  bonds 
that  are  loosening,  so  many  things  seem  to 
live  again  in  your  smile  that  I  feel  you  have 
never  left  us  to  go  to  war,  that  you  have 


104       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

not  been  wounded,  that  you  are  not  a  hero, 
that  you  are  not  going  to  die.  So  I  come  in 
again,  just  as  I  used  of  old  when  you  were 
a  schoolboy:  "Robert!"  I  say,  "it  is  late. 
You  must  get  up." 

I  lean  against  the  foot  of  your  bed,  di- 
rectly opposite  you,  for  it  wearies  you  to 
turn  your  head,  and  I  can  see  you  better 
this  way. 

My  eyes  cannot  look  enough  at  you. 

Your  beard  has  grown.  I  have  known  you 
always  with  a  mustache  only,  such  as  I  wear 
myself.  Your  beard  is  of- a  warm  color,  the 
same  Italian  brown  as  your  mother's  hair, 
which  in  her  youth  was  touched  with  gold 
when  she  stood  in  the  sunlight. 

"It  is  becoming  to  you,  this  beard,  my 
boy;  you  must  wear  it  always." 

He  looks  at  me  with  a  pity  which  seems 
to  enfold  us  both;  but  he  does  not  protest. 
Neither  of  us  is  deceived ;  but  in  the  depths 
of  the  tenderness  that  binds  us  together 
there  is  a  certain  chivalry  which  defies 
disaster. 

Agreed,  my  boy.  The  contractus  signed 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       105 

by  a  glance,  and  we  shall  keep  it  unflinch- 
ingly. Neither  you  nor  I  can  tell  how  many 
days,  how  many  hours,  are  left  us  to  be  to- 
gether. We  shall  live  as  though  we  did  not 
know  the  decree  is  signed,  as  though  I  were 
waiting  here  until  you  get  strong  enough  for 
me  to  take  you  home. 


XXIV 

Yesterday  he  was  too  tired,  after  the 
excitement  of  seeing  me,  to  talk  with  me 
as  he  is  so  eager  to  do  about  the  things  I 
want  so  much  to  hear. 

He  will  tell  me  his  story  in  the  moments 
of  respite  which  the  morphine  affords  him. 

He  said  to  me,  almost  abruptly  as  though 
giving  an  order — it  is  hard  for  him  to  speak, 
and  I  must  respond  at  once:  "Sit  down  be- 
side me!'* 

Then  he  began  the  story  which  is  to  be 
as  his  testament : 

"If  the  notebook  in  which  I  used  to  write 
every  day  should  ever  be  returned  to  you, 
you  will  see  that  my  diary  comes  to  an  end 
on  September  20,  1914.  So  I  shall  tell  you, 
now,  what  happened  during  my  last  three 
days. 

"On  that  Sunday,  the  20th,  we  had  left 
our  shelter  by  five  in  the  morning.   The 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       107 

Wind  blew,  the  rain  beat  down  furiously. 
The  men  were  digging  trenches  to  the  north. 
We  came  down  into  the  plain  to  await  or- 
ders. These  were  not  long  in  reaching  us. 
We  were  informed  that  there  was  an  en- 
gagement started  in  the  neighborhood  and 
that  we  were  to  take  part  in  it. 

"I  was  elated,  as  was  every  one.  But  my 
satisfaction  was  to  be  of  short  duration.  At 
the  very  moment  when  our  battalion  was  to 
advance  toward  the  cannon's  mouth,  I  re- 
ceived orders  to  join  the  artillery  with  my 
section. 

"The  battery  that  we  were  to  guard  was 
placed  in  a  hollow  of  the  valley  and  very 
cleverly  concealed  there.  Its  aim  was  di- 
rected on  an  important  village,  held  by  the 
enemy,  just  opposite  us.  We  watched  the 
firing  with  envy,  my  men  and  I,  for  our  regi- 
ment was  fighting  before  our  eyes.  They 
had  been  called  upon  to  reinforce  another 
regiment  of  infantry  who  were  attacking 
the  village. 

"As  consolation,  I  said  to  myself:  'Sup- 
pose they  take  the  village  without  you? 


io8       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

The  war  won't  be  over  for  that.  You  will 
have  other  chances  to  fight/ 

"  I  listened  to  this  reasoning  with  one  ear, 
and  with  the  other  I  heard  the  cannon ;  so 
that  I  was  consoled  without  being  consoled. 

*' Toward  noon,  a  dense  smoke  and  smoth- 
ered flames  broke  out  in  the  village.  Our 
cannon  had  done  good  work.  We  were  about 
to  redouble  the  dose  of  shell  when  I  saw  a 
soldier  running  toward  us.  He  was  gesticu- 
lating as  he  approached.  It  was  one  of 
Jean- Jose's  men. 

"Within  earshot  he  called  out:  'Stop  fire! 
Our  troops  are  in  possession  of  the  village.' 

"A  shiver  ran  down  our  spines,  for,  in 
such  a  case,  one  is  never  sure  that  one  has 
n't  fired  a  few  bullets  too  many. 

"  I  received  orders  to  join  our  battalion  at 
nine  that  night.  To  do  so  we  had  to  cross 
over  part  of  the  field  where  the  fighting  had 
taken  place  during  the  day. 

"I  remembered  having  read  in  certain  war 
stories  these  words:  *We  walked  on  the 
wounded  and  on  the  dead.'  I  realized  that 
night  their  true  meaning,  all  the  more  ago- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       109 

nizing  because  we  could  not  stop  to  answer 
those  poor  creatures  who  were  calling  us  as 
we  passed.  I  had  received  strict  orders: 
*  Rally  as  quickly  as  possible,  by  the  shortest 
way.' 

"It  was  ten  o'clock  when  we  entered  the 
burning  village.  We  were  to  quarter  there, 
in  the  buildings  saved  from  the  flames. 

"I  had  just  knocked  on  the  door  of  a 
barn  where  I  intended  to  install  my  sec- 
tion, when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  running 
across  my  comrade.  Lieutenant  Jean-Jose. 

"He  and  his  men  had  had  a  trying  time 
getting  across  the  hilltop,  but  they  had 
come  through  unscathed.  I  longed  to  hear 
the  details  of  their  encounter,  but  Jean- 
Jose,  who  had  been  rather  hard  hit,  was 
too  worn  out  to  answer  my  questions. 

"Together  we  went  into  a  deserted  house. 
A  neighbor  sold  us  some  jam  and  a  bottle  of 
wine.  We  dragged  a  mattress  out  in  front 
of  the  fire  and  there  we  went  to  sleep.  Not 
for  long,  however.  At  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  —  that  was  Monday,  the  21st  — 
we  were  already  up  and  under  way  in  the 


110       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

pitchy  darkness.  At  dawn  our  colonel  as- 
sembled us  in  the  clearing  of  a  wood.  He 
addressed  a  few  words  to  us.  He  said  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  way  our  regiment  had 
conducted  itself  the  day  before.  We  must 
expect  that  to-day  and  to-morrow  things 
would  be  hotter.  He  spoke  to  us  from  his 
horse,  concluding:  'We  shall  get  them,  if  it 
means  that  three  quarters  of  us  fall  in  the 
effort.  Vive  la  France!' 

"His  address  made  an  excellent  impres- 
sion. We  wrapped  ourselves  up  in  our 
cloaks  and  tried  to  sleep  in  spite  of  the  rain 
which  fell  heavily,  and  the  enemy's  bom- 
barding. 

"That  day  of  the  21st  of  September 
seemed  long  to  me.  I  was  apprehensive  for 
the  morrow.  I  had  been  invoking  this  en- 
counter for  weeks,  but  things  were  not  oc- 
curring as  I  had  imagined  they  would. 

"When,  at  evening,  before  a  camp-fire,  I 
had  dreamed  of  my  chance  to  receive  the 
true  *  baptism  of  fire,'  the  whole  adventure 
was  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  hero- 
ism. I  supposed  I  should  be  facing  an  en- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       in 

emy  superior  perhaps  in  numbers,  and  who 
would  attack  us  boldly ;  that  we  would  wait 
for  them  and  break  their  force  as  we  met 
in  hand-to-hand  combat.  We  would  drive 
them  back,  putting  them  to  flight.  Of  course 
all  this  would  give  a  splendid  chance  for 
each  of  us  to  do  something  remarkable  — 
and  the  whole  encounter  would  take  place 
in  the  broad  sunlight. 

"The  chance  offered  us  in  reality  pre- 
sented a  very  different  aspect.  Our  men, 
drenched  with  the  rain,  heavy  with  lack  of 
sleep,  realized  they  were  not  going  to  fight 
on  fresh  ground.  They  had  been  called  to 
help  out  the  comrades  who  had  been 
obliged  to  yield  in  the  same  spot!  The 
wounded  who  were  being  carried  back 
through  the  village,  said:  'We  are  retreat- 
ing. There  are  too  many  of  them.' 

"Well,  I  can  say  this  to  you:  I  have  al- 
ways been  superstitious !  It  was  during  the 
night  of  a  22d  to  a  23d  that  our  Guy  left 
us  forever. 

"At  the  end  of  the  day,  they  did  not  hide 
from  us  that  we  had  not  been  successful. 


112       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR] 

We  received  an  order  to  occupy  the  trenches 
at  our  right.  The  command  was  clear.  We 
were  to  protect,  as  they  fell  back,  those 
of  our  own  men  who  were  retreating.  In 
case  the  Germans  should  attempt  to  pur- 
sue them,  we  were  given  orders  to  resist 
them  as  long  as  we  could  hold  out. 

"The  rain  had  transformed  the  trenches 
into  a  swamp.  The  water  was  up  to  the 
calves  of  our  legs,  and  what  grieved  us  more 
was  the  procession  of  litters  carried  past  us 
as  the  wounded  were  brought  down  from 
the  firing-line. 

"I  drew  near  to  Jean- Jose  to  munch  a 
crust  with  him.  Conversation  languished. 
Our  teeth  were  chattering  with  cold  and  we 
had  no  way  of  warming  ourselves.  So  we 
saw  that  Tuesday,  the  22d,  dawn. 

"Toward  one  in  the  morning,  the  colonel 
decided  that  the  enemy  would  attempt  no 
further  advance  in  our  direction  that  night. 
He  sent  us  permission  to  leave  our  foot 
bath,  with  the  order  to  fall  back. 

"  It  was  a  relief  for  the  men  to  march  even 
in  the  rain  after  being  so  long  in  the  mud. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       113 

So  they  set  out  in  high  spirits  on  a  sHp- 
pery  road,  in  complete  darkness,  across  the 
woods. 

"At  five  in  the  morning  the  men  hoped 
that  they  would  be  allowed  to  come  to  a 
halt,  long  enough  this  time  really  to  get 
some  sleep.  But  when  they  found  that  the 
colonel  had  sent  for  a  supply  of  water  and 
that  they  were  instructed  to  fill  their  bottles, 
they  understood  that  to-day  would  be  mere- 
ly a  continuation  of  yesterday.  They  lay 
down,  however,  for  a  moment,  by  the  side 
of  the  road.  They  were  so  muddy  I  could 
hardly  distinguish  them  from  the  earth. 
And  how  grey  their  faces  were ! 

"At  seven  in  the  morning  we  had  taken 
up  our  position  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood. 
We  occupied  the  trenches  which  the  Ger- 
mans had  dug  with  care  a  few  days  before. 
The  rain  had  ceased  for  the  time  being.  It 
had  been  followed  by  a  sharp  wind.  This 
dried  our  cloaks,  but  left  us  shivering. 

"Toward  eight  o'clock  some  of  the  en- 
emy's scouts  were  signalled.  They  were 
throwing  up  defences  to  our  right.  Our  cap- 


114       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

tain  considered  that  we  ought  to  investi- 
gate. He  had  noticed  the  expression  on  my 
face,  two  days  before,  when  he  had  sent  us 
as  aids  to  the  heavy  artillery  with  which 
our  battalion  was  in  contact. 

"He  called  me  and  gave  me  the  following 
orders:  *Take  your  section  and  make  a 
reconnaissance  over  there.  These  Boches 
decidedly  have  too  much  cheek!' 

"I  had  already  accomplished  missions  of 
a  similar  character;  never  in  such  close  con- 
tact with  so  many  of  the  enemy's  numbers, 
so  I  was  delighted.  I  no  longer  thought  of 
the  rain,  of  the  unpropitious  date,  nor  of  the 
failure  of  our  comrades.  To  act  was  to  feel 
confident  at  once.  My  men  were  as  glad  as  I. 

"What  followed  during  the  day,  as  the 
battle  developed,  proved  to  what  an  extent 
this  audacity  of  the  enemy  was  premedi- 
tated. You  know  how  cautiously  they  gen- 
erally hide  the  preparation  going  on  in  a 
trench  where  they  intend  to  establish  a 
battery.  We  always  protect  ourselves  from 
any  possible  indiscretion;  we  avoid  outside 
contact  of  any  sort.   We  strain  our  necks 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        115 

keeping  a  lookout  in  the  air  to  see  if  any 
aeroplanes  are  observing  us.  Obviously,  a 
battery  whose  position  is  known  can't  hold 
out  very  long;  at  the  best  the  adversary's  ar- 
tillery manages  to  nullify  any  work  it  may 
attempt.  Knowing  the  precautions  we  take 
under  similar  circumstances,  the  careless- 
ness of  the  Germans  toward  us  seemed  to 
me  disconcerting.  They  no  more  ignored 
our  presence  in  their  immediate  neighbor- 
hood than  we  did  theirs.  And  yet  the  sol- 
diers, whom  I  could  see  distinctly  (I  had 
crept  on  somewhat  ahead  of  my  men  into 
a  clover-field),  were  digging,  piling  up  tree 
branches,  without  attempting  in  any  way 
to  conceal  what  they  were  doing.  Worse 
than  that,  a  dozen  or  more  of  them  had 
taken  off  their  dolmans.  They  were  work- 
ing in  shirt  sleeves.  Had  they  been  endeav- 
oring to  show  themselves  they  would  have 
acted  no  differently. 

"  Such  peculiar  proceedings  on  their  part 
aroused  my  curiosity.  I  wanted  to  get  a 
nearer  view  of  their  trenches.  I  wanted  to 
see  whether  the  enemy  really  were  working 


ii6       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

earnestly  without  sufficient  cover,  or  if  they 
were  simply  preparing  a  dummy  battery  in 
order  to  misguide  our  artillery  at  the  mo- 
ment of  the  clash. 

"This  was  exactly  what  I  was  not  allowed 
to  pass  judgment  upon.  A  sentinel,  who  no 
doubt  had  had  his  eye  upon  me  for  some 
minutes,  decided  that  I  was  advancing  too 
far.  He  gave  the  alarm.  I  had  only  time 
to  call  to  my  men:  'Lie  down  and  don't 
move!' 

"Already  a  cloud  of  bullets  stormed 
through  the  tree  branches,  above  and  about 
us. 

"I  was  just  going  to  order  my  men  to  fall 
back  to  a  slope  where  we  would  be  in  a 
better  position  to  respond  to  the  enemy, 
—  far  superior  in  numbers  to  ourselves,  — 
when,  coming  from  the  opposite  direction, 
we  heard  another  volley  of  hail.  It  was  one 
of  our  own  mitrailleuses  starting  into  action. 

"With  this  timely  warning  made  by  the 
sound  of  the  bullets,  the  captain  decided 
the  moment  had  come  for  us  to  push  on  our 
action.  He  called  us  together. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       117 

"I  had  had  time  to  make  a  rapid  sketch 
of  the  trench.  I  ordered  my  men  to  crawl 
back  under  cover  of  the  wood,  and  so  we 
rallied  in  our  own  tracks. 

"  From  as  far  as  he  could  see  us  the  captain 
called  to  me:  'Are  your  men  all  with  you?' 

"*No  breakage/  I  answered. 

"Then,  half  smiling,  half  angry,  he  de- 
clared: *I  told  you  to  go  and  find  out  what 
they  are  up  to.  I  did  not  tell  you  to  enter 
their  trenches!' 

"I  relished  this  reproach  particularly  and 
my  men  did  the  same.  I  left  them  to  go  and 
report  to  the  colonel. 

"I  longed  to  tell  him  that  the  preparations 
which  I  had  seen  under  way  appeared  to  be 
sham.  But  that  would  have  been  putting 
an  interpretation  on  facts,  which  was  none 
of  my  business,  and,  after  all,  it  was  only  an 
impression  I  had. 

"The  chief  listened  to  me,  biting  his 
cigar  end,  and  then  he  went  to  join  the 
colonel  of  the  regiment  which  was  to  make 
the  attack  with  ours.  That  colonel  is  here 
in  this  hospital  now;  you  need  only  cross 


ii8       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

the  garden  to  see  him.  He  has  a  fine  face, 
—  so  soldierly.  He  is  installed  in  a  little 
cottage  which  you  can  see  from  my  window. 
He  fell  twenty-four  hours  after  I  did.  The 
bullet  struck  him  full  in  the  chest ;  it  entered 
just  above  his  Legion  of  Honor  Cross.  He 
can  give  you,  more  clearly  than  I,  an  ac- 
count of  what  we  had  hoped  to  accomplish 
on  those  two  days,  the  22d  and  23d  of  Sep- 
tember, and  of  what  we  actually  did. 

"  I  expected  to  find  my  men  asleep.  They 
had  got  up  forty-eight  hours  before,  on  Sun- 
day, at  four  o'clock.  It  was  noon  on  Tues- 
day now.  This  made  fifty-six  hours  during 
which  these  fellows  had  been  marching  back 
and  forth,  doing  odd  jobs,  making  recon- 
naissances, even  fighting  under  a  pelting 
rain,  without  fire  or  sleep. 

"Now  they  might  have  taken  some  rest 
had  they  wanted  to,  for  they  knew  the  at- 
tack would  not  begin  before  noon.  Yet  I 
found  them  wide  awake. 

"One  of  them  said  to  me  jokingly: 
'Dead  or  alive,  we'll  have  plenty  of  time 
to  sleep  after  the  battle.' 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       119 

"A  trifle  after  noon  I  was  given  a  bit  of 
news  which  rejoiced  me.  My  superior  offi- 
cers had  decided  to  give  me  a  mark  of  their 
precious  confidence. 

"On  the  hill  beyond  there  was  a  village 
which  our  colonel  believed  to  have  been 
deserted.  He  thought  that  the  only  piece 
of  heavy  artillery  which  since  morning  had 
been  responding  to  our  *  75 '  had  been  left 
in  the  village  by  the  enemy  to  mislead  us. 

"His  plan  was  simple.  The  19th  Com- 
pany was  to  spread  out  over  the  ground  in 
the  form  of  a  lozenge.  The  sections  were  to 
be  stationed  a  hundred  metres  apart  in  all 
directions.  We  would  take  the  village  from 
the  right.  With  this  aim  in  view,  I  passed 
ahead  with  my  section,  composed  of  fifty 
men. 

"I  have  been  told  since  that  our  colonel 
ought  not  to  have  been  content  with  mere- 
ly studying  the  landscape  through  a  field- 
glass,  that  he  ought  to  have  dispatched  a 
scout  to  determine  whether  the  village  really 
was  empty,  as  he  presumed  it  to  be.  This 
precautionary  measure  would  have  pre- 


120       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

vented  the  massacre  of  our  battalion  and 
heavy  losses  for  our  regiment. 

"I  can't  go  into  this  discussion.  A  chief 
receives  orders  which  he  transmits  to  his 
subalterns.  I  want  to  say  one  thing,  how- 
ever: in  my  bed,  as  I  lie  here,  I  am  full  of 
gratitude  to  my  colonel  for  the  opportunity 
he  gave  me.  Thanks  to  him,  if  things  had 
turned  out  well,  I  could  have  distinguished 
myself. 

"It  was  about  two  o'clock  when  we  came 
out  of  our  trenches  to  pass  along  the  edge 
of  the  wood.  At  first  we  marched  in  single 
file  for  about  fifty  minutes.  My  watch 
marked  three  o'clock  when  we  reached  the 
height  where  my  section,  according  to  the 
plan,  was  to  come  out  leading  at  the  left. 
Already  we  had  been  discovered  by  the 
enemy. 

"We  had  long  since  grown  accustomed  to 
the  crashing  of  the  shells,  but  it  was  the 
first  time  we  had  been  enveloped  in  a  very 
network  of  bullets  fired  at  such  close  range. 
This  was  the  death-line  surely. 
^"I  had  long  looked  forward  to  this  mo- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       121 

ment.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  campaign 
and  before  that;  when  I  used  to  go  to  the 
manoeuvres,  and  even  farther  back,  at 
school,  when  I  used  to  study  the  new  map 
of  our  eastern  frontiers,  I  used  to  say  to 
myself  then:  'So  long  as  you  have  not  been 
put  to  that  test  you  won't  know  your  real 
worth/ 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  in- 
stinctive movement  at  such  a  time  does  n't 
carry  you  forward.  I  thought  of  you,  of 
mamma,  of  Guy,  of  Marie-Rose,  and  of 
Helen.  I  said  to  you  in  my  heart:  *It  is  for 
you ! '  —  and  then,  my  eyes  closed,  I  plunged 
forward ! 

"The  wood  was  behind  us  now.  We  were 
crawling  in  the  open. 

"You  know  the  manoeuvre:  the  moment 
there  is  a  lull,  you  bound  forward  on  all 
fours.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  my  men.  We 
advanced  as  though  we  were  swimming. 

"The  horizon  was  hidden  by  a  hilltop 
which  at  about  three  hundred  metres  from 
us  rose  up  against  the  sky.  The  Germans, 
who  were  entrenched  behind  the  slope,  had 


122       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

plenty  of  time  to  take  good  aim  at  us  as 
though  we  were  so  many  hares  started  up. 

"Instantly  there  were  wounded  —  dead, 
probably  —  among  our  number,  for  all  the 
bullets  did  not  merely  dig  up  earth  before 
our  noses  and  fall  gently  against  our  water- 
cups. 

"I  did  not  stop  to  count  those  who  fell. 
I  cried  out:  'Closer!  Closer!' —  and  I  threw 
myself  ahead  of  the  men  to  encourage  them. 
Thus,  bounding  on,  in  a  series  of  leaps,  we 
covered  about  two  hundred  metres  and 
started  to  crawl  up  the  slope.  At  each  move 
my  section  was  thinning  out,  but  the  men 
followed  me. 

"One  grows  accustomed  to  everything. 
When  we  had  faced  the  first  volley,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  I  had  thought:  'We  shall 
not  make  ten  metres!' 

"Now  it  seemed  as  though  the  bullets 
were  not  intended  for  me.  I  could  see  my- 
self at  the  top  of  the  hill  already.  I  would 
throw  my  section  on  those  who  were  hiding 
beyond.  Like  Pierrette  and  the  jug  of  milk ! 
Yet  one  can't  regret  having  had  such  hopes 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       123 

for  a  moment.  They  seem  to  be  made  up  of 
a  childish  faith,  of  love,  of  all  that  is  super- 
natural and  quite  complete. 

"They  did  not  last  long.  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  call  out  again :  'Onward,  my  boys ! ' 
—  when  a  column  of  earth  and  dust  passed 
over  us  and  glued  us  to  the  ground.  The 
Boches  had  brought  up  their  mitrailleuses. 
In  addition  the  rain  was  rattling  down  as 
it  does  in  Paris  when  a  storm-cloud  bursts 
and  people  are  obliged  to  seek  shelter,  from 
the  hail,  under  the  porte-cocheres. 

"I  threw  off  the  earth  that  had  fallen  on 
me.  I  seized  by  his  shoulders  a  soldier  lying 
at  my  right.  I  did  the  same  for  a  man  at  my 
left,  and  the  others  —  they  did  not  move. 
They  stared  at  me  with  their  poor  eyes.  I 
could  not  tell  whether  they  had  been  killed 
or  had  died  of  fright. 

"For  a  moment  I  was  in  despair.  This 
was  not  what  they  had  pledged  me.  I  stood 
up  in  the  hailing  bullets  and  shouted  with 
all  my  strength:  'If  I  am  killed,  it  is  your 
fault ! .  .  .  But  as  long  as  you  lie  there  with- 
out moving  I  shall  remain  standing!' 


124       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"They  heard  me.  Four  or  five  of  them 
lifted  themselves  up  on  their  elbows;  the 
others  followed. 

"They  roused  themselves ;  again  we  moved 
forward. 

"I  wanted  to  see  what  was  beyond  the 
hilltop,  so  I  crawled  up  to  the  crest. 

"It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  was  shot 
through  the  arm  by  the  bullet  I  wrote  you 
of  in  my  letter  .  .  .  here.  ...  At  first  I 
thought  a  stone  had  struck  me.  The  blood 
pouring  down  my  sleeve  enlightened  me.  I 
tried  moving  my  fingers.  Nothing  serious 
had  been  touched,  so  I  took  no  further  notice 
of  the  wound.  Far  more  disturbing  was  what 
I  had  just  seen  beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

"It  was  only  a  thin  point,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  under  the  slope,  was  a  sort 
of  hollow  which  would  have  to  be  got  over 
running,  under  the  enemy's  fire,  before  we 
could  reach  the  foot  of  the  second  hill,  which 
could  not  be  seen  from  our  plain.  Beyond 
the  second  defence  the  Germans  were  en- 
trenched solidly,  and  always  hidden  from  us. 

"I  was  sure  that  my  men  would  rise  to 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       125 

the  occasion  and  would  leap  over  the  first 
hill.  But  in  order  that  such  sacrifices  be  of 
use,  the  whole  battalion  should  have  been 
stationed  already  on  the  slope,  ready  to 
follow  us,  and  push  forward  with  us. 

"No  such  order  came  to  me.  Nor  did 
I  receive  notice  to  fall  back.  I  received 
nothing.  It  was  cruel  to  leave  my  men  to  be 
killed,  one  after  the  other,  lying  there  on  the 
ground.  They  deserved  that  more  use  be 
made  of  their  lives  or  of  their  death. 

"I  came  back  to  my  section.  I  looked 
behind  us. 

"To  the  left  things  were  going  badly. 
There  was  a  company  there  going  to  pieces. 
When  they  had  disappeared,  all  would  be 
up  with  us.  On  the  other  side,  our  artil- 
lery was  hammering  away  on  the  trenches 
which  I  had  reconnoitred  in  the  morning, 
and  which  were  only  a  sham.  We  had  no 
idea  where  the  batteries  were  situated  which 
were  pelting  us  now. 

"At  this  very  moment  I  saw  my  dear 
friend,  Lieutenant  Jean-Jose,  leading  half 
a  section.    He  was  bounding  up  the  hill 


126       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

toward  us.  The  storm  of  the  mitrailleuse 
had  slackened  a  bit,  but  the  shells  and  the 
shrapnel  had  started  up. 

"I  shouted  out  to  him:  'Steady  there! . . . 
I'll  come  down!' 

"We  each  went  halfway  and  I  asked  him: 

"*Are  you  bringing  me  orders?' 

"'None  whatever!' 

"'I  shall  go  for  them,  then.' 

"On  the  way  down  I  met  our  captain  and 
said  to  him:  'The  20th  over  there  has  col- 
lapsed.  Shall  we  go  to  their  assistance?' 

"He  was  kneeling  on  the  ground.  He 
looked  and  then  shook  his  head:  'Let  them 
shift  for  themselves.  The  major  wants  the 
whole  forward  movement  continued.' 

"I  went  on  down  to  where  the  major  was 
standing  and  told  him  what  I  had  been  able 
to  see  from  above.  He  replied:  'You  have 
succeeded  in  reaching  there?  .  .  .  Remain 
there!  I  shall  try  to  climb  up  beside  you. 
I  want  to  have  a  look  over  the  crest  of  the 
hill.' 

"  So  I  returned  to  my  post  and  said  to  my 
men:  'We  are  to  wait.' 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       127 

"The  storm  that  had  been  falling  had 
not  been  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  all, 
and  there  were  not  many  of  us  left  to  wait. 
Yet  the  major  had  set  out  at  once;  he  was 
almost  up  to  us.  Stopping  a  moment  for 
breath,  he  crawled  to  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
I  saw  his  cap :  it  stood  out  against  the  sky. 
Suddenly  he  raised  his  left  arm.  He  made  a 
gesture  with  his  right  arm  and  shouted 
something.  'What?'  I  answered. 

He  did  not  have  time  to  repeat  his  com- 
mand. He  fell  on  his  back.  ...  He  lay  there, 
groaning:  'My  wife! .  .  .  My  children!' 

"  Perhaps  what  he  wanted  to  call  out  was, 
'Advance.'  I  beckoned  to  one  of  the  men, — 
a  young  priest,  —  who  is  a  fine  fellow,  full  of 
feeling.  I  said  to  him:  'Sergeant  Bresson, 
go  to  the  major  there.  Take  him  some 
water.  Ask  him  if  he  has  any  orders  for  me, 
and  carry  him  down  from  where  he  lies.' 

"I  followed  the  sergeant  with  my  eyes. 
At  the  moment  when  he  stooped  to  kneel 
by  the  major,  I  saw  his  arm  drop.  A  bullet 
had  demolished  it.  This  did  not  prevent 
Bresson's  praying  aloud. 


128       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR' 

"  I  thought  to  myself:  'The  sergeant  won't 
come  back  and  the  major  is  dying.  I  must 
go  to  them  and  lose  no  time  about  it,  other- 
wise I  shall  not  know  whether  he  wants  me 
to  go  across  the  hill/ 

"So  I  got  up,  and  in  order  to  hasten  mat- 
ters, instead  of  creeping  over  the  ground,  I 
ran  toward  my  chief.  I  did  not  go  far.  The 
good  German  marksman  who  had  taken  aim 
at  the  major  and  then  at  Bresson,  or  some 
other  marksman  equally  skillful,  fired  at 
me,  twice  in  succession.  His  first  shot  went 
through  the  sack  hanging  on  my  back. 
Then  he  changed  his  aim  about  the  width  of 
two  fingers.  That  bullet  went  in  under  my 
right  arm,  traversed  both  lungs,  and  made 
the  wound  you  know. 

"It  seems  that  I  said:  'I  have  been  hit!' 

"Immediately  some  of  my  men  came  to 
my  assistance.  I  gave  them  the  order:  'Let 
Lieutenant  Jean-Jose  know.' 

"They  told  me  that  this  noble  friend  was 
coming  up  to  me.  It  was  n't  worth  while. 
I  gave  orders  that  they  shout  to  him: 
*  Don't  come  on!' 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        129 

"The  lieutenant  was  needed  at  the  head 
of  his  section,  and  I  counted  on  him  to  let 
Helen  know.  Moreover,  there  was  nothing 
just  then  to  be  done  for  me. 

"I  commanded  my  men:  *Go  back  to 
your  posts  .  .  .' 

"And  I  settled  myself  to  wait." 


XXV 

It  is  nearly  an  hour  that  my  poor  boy  has 
been  talking  and  that  I  have  been  hanging 
on  his  words  without  having  the  courage  to 
stop  him.  I  realize  that  he  is  using  strength 
he  will  never  regain,  but  he  longs  so  to 
speak,  and  one  cannot  impose  silence  upon 
the  dying. 

Yet,  for  a  moment,  he  ceases,  closing  his 
eyes.  When  he  opens  them  again  he  sees 
that  I  am  standing  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

He  says,  with  a  consideration  which  over- 
whelms me : 

"You  must  be  tired  holding  up  my  pil- 
low ...  I  shall  lie  down  for  a  moment,  and 
then  I  want  to  go  on.  .  .  ." 

After  a  few  moments  he  begins  again: 

"At  the  second  the  bullet  struck  me,  and 

as  I  was  falling,  I  realized  that  I  was  going 

to  be  paralyzed.  I  turned  myself  over  while 

I   still   had   the   strength.    My  thoughts 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       131 

worked  like  lightning.  I  said  to  myself:  'If 
they  come  later  to  pick  us  up,  I  don't  want 
them  to  think  me  dead/  And  also  I  wanted 
to  see  what  was  happening  to  the  end. 

"When  my  men  had  dragged  me  down  a 
little  under  the  hill,  I  lost  consciousness  a 
moment.  I  did  n't  notice  that  they  had 
slipped  a  sack  under  my  head.  It  was  there 
when  I  came  to  my  senses. 

"The  bullets  continued  to  rain  over  my 
head.  All  our  men  had  climbed  down  to  the 
foot  of  the  slope.  I  was  alone. 

"I  could  move  my  arms.  I  turned  my 
wrist  so  that  I  could  see  my  watch.  It  was 
a  little  after  four  o'clock.  Above  me  the 
sky  wasgrey  and  it  was  still  raining  a  little. 

"I  longed  to  move  my  legs,  and  yet  I  did 
not  dare  try,  for  fear  of  discovering  that  I 
no  longer  had  control  over  them.  At  last  I 
summoned  all  my  courage.  I  tried  several 
times.  They  hung  there  like  two  sacks. 
Then  I  realized  what  had  happened  to  me." 

He  stops  a  moment.  He  does  not  want  to 
say  the  forbidden  word.   And  the  memory 


132       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

of  his  sacrifice  prolongs  itself  in  a  silence 
where  my  soul  meets  his. 

I  know,  my  boy,  that  the  time  is  coming 
when  you  will  no  longer  be  able  to  speak 
to  me.  Then  some  voice,  near  by,  will  say: 
"He  no  longer  suffers  now!"  —  and  we 
shall  fold  your  hands. 

Then  you  will  have  ceased  living  for  us. 
But  I  know  that  you  died  for  yourself  at 
that  moment  when,  stretched  out  on  that 
hillside,  alone,  before  God,  your  country, 
your  love,  you  accepted  without  a  murmur. 


XXVI 

"Now,  my  child,  I  want  you  to  rest!"  ! 

"No,  no! .  .  .  There  is  more  I  want  to 
tell  you  .  .  ." 

He  does  not  add:  "To-morrow,  shall  I  be 
able  to  go  on?" 

He  guesses  what  is  in  my  heart,  and  he 
does  not  want  me  to  despair. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  says,  "that  physically 
I  did  not  suffer  as  much  as  one  would  sup- 
pose. I  mean  from  my  wound,  for,  almost 
at  once,  I  was  tormented  by  thirst.  It  was 
almost  a  blessing;  it  kept  me  from  thinking 
too  much. 

"I  did  not  say  to  myself:  *I  want  to  get 
up.  ...  I  want  to  recover!' 

"The  idea  of  drinking  absorbed  me.  I 
opened  my  mouth  in  the  hope  that  a  few 
drops  of  rain  might  fall  into  it,  but  I  did  not 
feel  them. 

"The  bullets  continued  to  fall  like  hail. 


134       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

They  did  not  bother  me,  only  the  time 
seemed  long,  terribly  long. 

"I  don't  know  how  long  it  lasted  that 
way.  But  in  my  misery  something  very 
beautiful  happened.  Suddenly  I  heard  a 
voice  beside  me.  I  asked:  *Who  is  there?' 
For  I  was  above  all  afraid  of  the  Germans 
appearing.  I  did  not  want  to  fall  into  their 
hands  alive. 

*'An  answer  came:  'It  is  I,  Peguy!' 

"  Peguy  was  one  of  my  men,  a  poor  fellow 
whom  I  had  often  been  obliged  to  repri- 
mand, for  he  had  a  way  of  looking  as  though 
he  had  just  dropped  out  of  the  moon,  which 
set  the  others  to  laughing.  I  knew  that  he 
had  a  wife  and  a  child. 

"He  had  left  the  cover  of  the  woods  now 
to  come  to  my  assistance.  He  had  reached 
me  crawling.  It  was  terribly  dangerous. 
Surely,  if  I  had  thought  some  one  might 
come  to  help  me,  it  was  not  Peguy. 

"When  he  was  quite  close  to  me,  he  said : 
'Lieutenant!  I  have  n't  always  been  a  good 
soldier.  I  have  given  you  a  lot  of  trouble, 
but  to-day  you  have  honored  us  all,  and  I 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       135 

could  n't  bear  to  leave  you  lying  here,  so  I 
have  come  to  fetch  you.' 

"You  can't  imagine  how  glad  I  was  to 
feel  that  I  was  n't  abandoned.  I  answered 
him:  *My  dear  Peguy,  I  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart,  but  I  am  not  able  to  move.  You 
would  get  killed  here  for  nothing.  Only  un- 
fasten my  collar  because  I  am  suffocating, 
and,  if  you  can,  give  me  something  to  drink.' 

"He  did  as  I  asked.  He  gave  me  some 
water  with  a  little  mint.  Then  I  said  to 
him:  'Peguy,  I  command  you  to  go  back.' 

"He  obeyed,  going  down  on  all  fours. 

"After  he  had  left  me, —  it  must  have 
been  about  five  o'clock,  I  think,  —  I  re- 
mained alone  until  midnight. 

"It  was  not  my  wound  that  caused  me 
the  greatest  suffering.  It  was  all  that  was 
going  on  above  my  head  and  around  me. 
Their  mitraille  wearied  me.  It  no  longer 
fell  at  my  side:  it  passed  high  up  in  the  air. 
No  doubt  they  were  bombarding  the  wood 
which  we  had  left  behind  us  early  in  the  day. 

"Beneath  me  it  seemed  that  the  earth 
had  become  a  raft.  I  seemed  to  be  climbing 


136       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

up  high  waves  only  to  fall  back  again  in  the 
sea's  trough.  This  was  only  imagination,  of 
course;  the  bombarding  was  violent,  but  the 
slope  on  which  I  lay  was  not  shaken  by  it. 
.  .  .  The  rocking  was  in  myself.  ...  It  is 
there  still.  .  .  .  Even  in  my  bed  T  don't  feel 
as  though  I  were  lying  flat.  I  rise  and  sink 
on  the  waves.   It  is  very  fatiguing." 

As  he  said  this  he  stopped  a  moment, 
and  on  his  face,  as  upon  that  of  a  drowning 
man,  I  see  the  marks  of  distress.  Poor,  hu- 
man derelict,  his  feet  in  the  air,  his  head 
downward,  he  drifts  toward  some  unknown 
shore! 

Yet  he  wants  to  end  his  story,  so  that  he 
shall  not  have  to  resume  it,  as  this  effort, 
after  so  many  others,  is  cruel  for  him.  He 
begins  again: 

"  I  was  glad  when  I  saw  the  night  coming, 
as  I  said  to  myself:  *When  those  who  are 
firing  at  us  can  no  longer  see,  perhaps  my 
men  will  come  to  find  me.*  I  was  thinking 
of  my  men  because  I  had  been  attached  to 
them  and  I  was  sure  of  their  devotion. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        137 

"My  hopes  were  fulfilled. 

"Toward  six  in  the  evening  I  heard 
sounds  approaching.  Some  one  called  me 
in  the  darkness.  I  answered.  A  moment 
after  they  were  beside  me,  four  or  five  of 
those  fine  fellows  whom  I  had  sometimes 
assisted  on  long  marches  by  carrying  their 
sacks  for  them ;  and  also  by  caring  for  their 
poor  feet,  as  you  had  advised  me  to  do. 
Because  of  such  little  acts  of  kindness,  they 
had  come  now  to  find  me  on  the  battle- 
field. 

"They  had  no  litter,  so  they  tried  to  carry 
me  without.  It  could  n't  be  done.  Then 
they  made  a  sort  of  couch  by  crossing  their 
rifles  and  throwing  a  cloak  over  them.  I 
was  longing  enough  to  get  away,  but  the 
barrels  of  the  guns  proved  too  hard  for  such 
a  wound  as  mine.  I  felt  myself  growing  cold. 

"Tm  done  for,'  I  said  to  them.  .  .  .  Tut 
me  down  on  the  ground.  ...  I  would  rather 
it  ended  there!' 

"They  were  exhausted  themselves,  but 
they  were  determined  not  to  abandon  me. 
So  they  laid  me  down  in  the  grass.  Two  of 


138       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

them  remained  with  me;  the  others  went 
off  in  search  of  something  better  for  me. 

"I  don't  know  how  long  my  friends  and 
I  stayed  there  tete-a-tete.  I  had  only  one 
idea  in  my  head  —  like  an  obsession  —  to 
get  back.  . .  .  Where  ? .  . .  To  Paris  probably. 

"It  was  about  midnight  when  I  found 
myself  on  some  straw,  on  the  ground  floor 
of  a  farmhouse.  There  were  many  of  our 
wounded  about  me ;  some  were  dying,  others 
already  dead. 

"  Since  then  I  have  heard  that  as  my  Utter 
was  carried  down  from  the  field,  my  colonel, 
who  was  wounded  also,  dragged  himself 
over  to  greet  me  as  I  passed.  I  have  a  sort 
of  vague  memory  of  hearing  him  speak  my 
name  and  say:  'Farewell,  lieutenant! .  .  . 
Farewell,  my  poor  child!' 

"I  was  not  able  to  answer  him.  He  under- 
stands, for  they  say  I  was  looking  very  far 
gone. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  was  examined 
after  that.  If  they  had  time  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter  with  me,  they  must 
have  decided  it  was  fairer  to  care  first  for 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       139 

those  who  could  be  saved.  How  many  of 
us  there  were !  Our  major  had  been  killed, 
our  captain,  a  second  lieutenant,  not  to 
speak  of  the  soldiers  who  were  in  their  last 
agony. 

"Everything  that  took  place  that  night 
is  vague  in  my  memory.  It  seems  that  a 
priest  came  to  visit  us.  I  gave  him,  they 
say,  my  wallet,  with  my  papers,  your  let- 
ters, Helen's,  and  your  addresses.  I  have 
no  recollection  of  all  this.  I  acted  as  though 
in  a  dream  of  which  nothing  remains  on 
waking.  One  thing  I  do  remember,  the  mo- 
ment when  my  dear  friend.  Lieutenant 
Jean- Jose,  appeared  by  my  side. 

"He  had  seen  me  fall  and  had  been  look- 
ing for  me.  He  had  continued  to  search  in 
spite  of  the  bullet  which  had  struck  him  in 
the  knee.  It  was  a  comfort  to  see  him  again. 

"  Since  the  outset  of  the  campaign  we  had 
lived  side  by  side,  like  brothers.  We  had 
promised  each  other  that,  if  a  misfortune 
befell  either  of  us,  the  one  surviving  would 
write  a  letter,  I  to  his  wife,  he  to  my 
fiancee. 


140       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"  He  had  come  now  to  know  whether  he 
were  to  fulfil  his  promise.  I  said  to  him: 
'I  am  seriously  wounded.  Both  my  lungs 
and  the  spine.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  can  re- 
cover, at  my  age!' 

"He  understood.  He  knew  that  I  wanted 
him  to  say  in  the  letter  he  was  to  write 
Helen:  'There  is  hope.'  He  did  as  I  asked, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

Do  you  hear,  Jean- Jose,  my  friend,  the 
faithful  friend  who  tended  my  boy?  He 
said  "Never,"  at  a  moment  when  such  a 
word  savors  of  the  eternal. 


XXVII 

Once  more  I  try  to  interrupt  him,  for  his 
pale  face,  tanned  by  the  sun,  is  touched  with 
a  flush  of  pink  in  the  cheeks. 

He  insists:  "It  doesn't  matter.  ...  I 
have  something  more,  very  fine,  to  tell  you. 
Often  I  wrote  you  that  I  was  proud  of  my 
men.  .  .  .  You  can't  imagine  how  kind- 
hearted  they  are.  .  .  ." 

I  can  see  him  smiling  as  though  to  some 
pleasing  vision.  ...  Of  whom  I  can  guess ! 
For  an  instant  thus,  between  his  resignation 
and  his  sufferings,  passes  the  image  of  his 
pure,  young  love. 

"That  night  in  the  farmhouse  was  hard! 
The  bombarding  continued  uninterruptedly, 
and  they  were  taking  good  aim  now.  We 
could  hear  roofs  falling  in,  walls  crumbling, 
trees  being  uprooted.  Those  of  us  who  were 
seriously  wounded  lived  in  terror.    It  was 


142       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

worse  than  our  physical  sufferings.  We 
were  haunted  by  this  thought:  *If  things 
keep  on  like  this,  they  will  have  to  evacuate 
the  village.  .  .  .  What  then? .  . .  Those  of 
us  who  cannot  use  our  legs  to  walk  will  be 
left  behind.' 

"We  all  feel  alike.  Anything  is  better 
than  to  fall  into  the  Germans'  hands,  to 
have  to  see  them  before  dying. 

"Toward  six  in  the  morning  they  told  us 
that  some  carts  were  on  the  way  to  fetch  us. 
Those  who  could  help  themselves  climbed 
into  these  wagons.  I  was  n't  among  them.  I 
waited  until  three  in  the  afternoon  without 
any  one  even  having  time  to  give  me  a  drink. 

"Then  some  more  carts  were  sent  for  us. 
A  field  surgeon  came  into  the  room  where  I 
was  lying.  He  took  us  all  in  at  a  glance. 
He  was  weighing  our  relative  chances,  for 
there  were  only  a  few  places  to  be  disposed 
of,  and  we  were  numerous. 

"They  were  going  to  leave  me  a  second 
time,  when  one  of  my  men,  who  had  been 
chosen  to  leave,  pointed  me  out.  He  called 
out  to  the  orderlies  who  were  bringing  in  a 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       143 

Utter:  'Take  him! .  .  .  Take  him! ...  He  is 
engaged  to  be  married!' 

"I  have  spoken  to  you  already  of  Peguy, 
who  brought  me  a  drink  in  the  firing-line, 
and  I  know  you  won't  forget  him.  But  of 
this  one  I  cannot  tell  you  the  name  ...  I 
was  too  far  gone.  I  could  just  hear  what  he 
said.  It  seemed  like  dew  falling  on  my  heart, 
and,  for  a  moment,  I  felt  I  had  been  saved. 
I  did  not  even  have  the  strength  to  say 
'Thank  you!'  to  this  comrade,  who,  at  such 
a  moment,  had  given  me  his  turn.  Because 
he  knew  that  I  was  in  love,  and  loved.  Be- 
cause he  thought  I  could  be  carried  some- 
where to  a  bed  where  I  could  lie  until  per- 
haps some  friendly  hand  might  come  to 
touch  me." 

The  shadows  are  gathering  in  the  room 
now.  Twice  the  head  nurse  has  opened  the 
door  gently  to  look  at  him.  Now  she  comes 
in.  She  nods  toward  our  patient  with  a 
shade  of  reproach. 

"He  is  tiring  himself  out!  We  must  leave 
him  alone  now." 


144       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

I  go  back  to  the  threshold  of  his  room  to 
look  at  him  once  more.  He  has  closed  his 
eyes,  but  he  is  not  asleep,  for  his  lips  are 
moving. 

He  is  praying,  praying  for  him  whose 
name  he  does  n't  know,  and  who,  in  the 
midst  of  so  much  agony,  offered  himself  in 
order  to  make  a  place  for  the  Love  which 
triumphs  over  Death. 


XXVIII 

I  GO  back  to  think  by  myself  in  the  shelter 
which  has  been  offered  me  near  the  hospital 
gate  by  the  head  surgeon. 

I  am  lodged  in  a  place  directly  opposite 
the  iron  paling.  It  used  to  be  a  wineshop. 
Before  the  war  the  people  who  came  up  to 
visit  the  sick  used  to  stop  there  and  take  a 
drink  to  revive  their  spirits. 

The  room  where  I  sleep  opens  into  the 
kitchen.  As  this  part  of  the  house  is  not 
built  over  a  cellar,  the  walls  are  dank.  It 
is  used  like  a  storeroom,  for  fruit,  cheese, 
pumpkins,  and  milk  cans.  At  any  other 
time  all  these  odors  would  keep  me  from 
sleeping,  but  I  am  in  a  state  of  body  and 
mind  in  which  nothing  affects  me. 

Behind  my  door  I  can  hear  our  cook  com- 
ing and  going  —  Big  Louis,  and  his  assist- 
ant Goddin.  Both  of  them  are  orderlies. 
They  take  turns  doing  night  duty  in  the 
wards. 


146       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

On  the  night  of  my  arrival  they  adopted 
me.  They  treat  me  with  an  almost  tender 
consideration  which  sometimes  brings  to 
my  eyes  the  tears  I  can't  shed  before  my 
son. 

The  head  surgeon  said  to  me:  "With  a 
fellow  like  Big  Louis  you  could  go  to  the 
end  of  the  world!" 

One  can  go  to  the  end  of  suffering  with 
him  too.  He  is  a  butcher  by  profession,  but 
he  was  bom  with  the  instinct  of  fraternity; 
he  seems  to  comfort  all  those  who  go  near 
him. 

The  hospital  regulations  don't  allow  me 
to  remain  in  my  boy's  ward  at  night,  on  the 
empty  bed,  opposite  his. 

Big  Louis  realizes  what  this  sacrifice  costs 
me.  He  said  to  me  at  once:  "Goddin  and  I 
take  turns  on  night  duty  in  the  pavilion 
where  your  son  is.  If  he  should  take  a  turn 
for  the  worse  we  would  run  to  tell  you." 

This  good  fellow  realizes  probably  that 
in  my  anguish,  between  the  fruit  and  the 
cheese,  I  pass  my  nights  open-eyed.  He  has 
noticed  that  I  generally  fall  asleep  toward 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        147 

morning  when  the  chill  of  the  autumn  dawn 
sends  the  dampness  drifting  down  the  walls 
of  my  cellar-like  room.  He  prepares  the 
breakfast  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  so  as 
not  to  disturb  my  sleep.  And  scarcely  am 
I  awake  when  he  pushes  open  my  door, 
thrusts  in  his  curly  head,  and  announces: 
"The  lieutenant  has  had  a  good  night!" 

In  these  hours  of  world-destruction,  here 
in  this  distant  barracks  of  suffering,  where 
death  is  mowing  down  such  hosts  of  young, 
on  the  brink  of  your  tomb,  my  boy,  it  is  a 
comfort  to  my  sad  heart,  this  kindliness  of 
a  poor  laborer.  It  is  the  same  as  that  shown 
you  by  the  soldier  who  brought  you  a  drink, 
by  the  other  one  who  gave  you  his  chance. 
Big  Louis  now,  regardless  of  fatigue,  spends 
half  of  each  night  watching,  so  that  my 
anguish,  which  has  roused  his  pity,  may 
have  moments  of  forgetfulness. 


XXIX 

"And  now  there  is  n't  much  more  to  tell 
you!" 

If  I  did  not  know  what  I  do  know,  I 
could  almost  believe  that  my  son  is  better. 

Big  Louis  declares  to  me:  "It's  his  joy 
at  seeing  you."  The  head  surgeon  says 
nothing. 

And  as  my  son  talks  to  me,  his  mind  so 
clear,  his  spirit  seeming  to  hover  on  his  lips, 
I  am  thinking  of  the  flame  that  leaps  up 
before  it  dies. 

He  resumes  his  story: 

"In  the  cart  which  brought  me  back,  as 
it  bumped  along  the  stony  road,  I  would 
rather  not  say  what  my  suffering  was  .  .  . 
I  try  to  forget  it.  I  had  not  been  bandaged. 
I  hung  on  to  the  side  of  the  wagon. 

"When  we  reached  the  end  of  our  journey 
I  had  become  a  being  who  was  all  eyes !  I 
could  see  Helen  looking  at  me.  .  .  .  This 
kept  me  alive.  . . . 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       149 

"It  was  night  by  the  time  they  had  set 
us  down  before  a  little  chateau,  which  I  had 
admired  a  week  before  as  we  halted  there 
for  a  moment.  Now  the  chateau  and  the 
outbuildings  were  all  crowded  to  overflow- 
ing with  the  wounded. 

"They  put  me  down  in  a  hallway  and  I 
could  hear  the  men  who  had  been  carrying 
me  say  in  a  low  voice:  'This  one  is  done 
for!' 

"Each  time  a  surgeon  passed,  I  spoke  my 
name  —  your  name  —  as  distinctly  as  I 
could,  so  that  they  would  come  to  my  aid. 

"At  last  one  of  the  surgeons  stopped  by 
my  side.  He  leaned  over  me.  He  asked  me 
if  I  were  your  son,  the  nephew  of  the  sur- 
geon of  the  Montpellier  Faculty. 

"I  told  him  I  was.  *Your  uncle  was 
my  instructor,'  he  said.  .  .  .  ^Wait  a  mo- 
ment. ...  I  shall  be  able  to  examine  you 
presently.'  He  promised  to  tell  me  the  truth 
about  myself. 

"In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  and  ex- 
amined me  on  my  litter,  where  he  made  the 
first  dressing  I  had  had.  I  could  not  see  his 


150       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

face,  but  I  heard  the  diagnosis  as  he  dic- 
tated it.  When  he  said,  *I'm  going  to  have 
you  put  near  me  on  a  mattress  in  the  draw- 
ing-room,' he  looked  at  me  in  such  a  kindly 
way  that  I  understood.  It  was  then  that  I 
asked  to  write  to  you.  How  could  he  find 
time  to  help  me!  He  is  a  man  of  deep  feel- 
ing. The  horrors  he  has  seen  have  not  dulled 
his  sensibilities. 

"There  were  three  of  us  on  the  same  mat- 
tress. Everything  was  wet  with  blood,  but 
I  was  better  there  than  on  the  floor.  I  had 
entirely  regained  my  senses.  I  was  very 
grateful. 

"The  night,  however,  was  terrible.  They 
had  set  up  an  operating-table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  under  the  chandelier.  The 
wounded  were  passed  along,  one  after  an- 
other. I  remember  particularly  clearly  a 
captain  whom  they  were  trepanning.  He 
was  living  his  battle  over  and  over.  He 
kept  shouting:  *  Forward! .  .  .  We've  got 
them,  boys! .  .  .  Forward! .  .  .' 

"It  was  hard,  too,  to  hear  men  with  grey 
hair  calling  out :  /  Mamma ! ' 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  [HONOR       151 

"Many  of  those  who  were  under  the 
chloroform  cried  out  as  though  they  were 
awake.  Perhaps  I  did  the  same !  I  imagined 
myself,  as  they  did,  still  leading  on  my  men, 
yelling,  howling ! .  .  .  I  have  the  same  im- 
pression now.  ...  I  can't  seem  to  realize 
that  I  am  alone. 

"And  yet,  toward  morning,  I  fell  asleep, 
not  into  unconsciousness,  but  into  a  natural 
sleep.  It  was  the  first  time  since  I  was 
wounded.  When  I  woke  up  it  was  broad 
daylight.    I  had  an  amusing  surprise. 

"By  my  side,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  my 
mattress,  was  a  splendid  fellow,  whom  you 
don't  know,  but  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted in  a  charming  way  last  winter;  he 
is  the  sergeant  of  dragoons,  Dombrowsky.^ 
He  and  his  sister  are  friends  of  Helen. 

"We  used  to  meet  at  balls.  He  is  a  culti- 
vated fellow,  slightly  'precieux,'  perhaps. 
He  was  among  the  first  to  write  when  he 
heard  I  was  engaged.  He  congratulated  me 
on  my  happiness.  He  was  to  have  been  one 
of  our  ushers. 

*  Killed  in  action,  May  20,  1915. 


152       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"I  could  not  believe  my  eyes.  I  said  to 
him:  'Dombrowsky!  .  .  .  You  here?  .  .  . 
Where  have  you  dropped  from?' 

"What  he  told  me  touched  me  infinitely. 
The  day  before  he  had  been  told  by  the 
commissary  that  I  had  fallen,  and  all  about 
it.  He  went  immediately  to  find  his  colo- 
nel. He  told  him  of  our  friendship.  He  asked 
permission — which  was  granted  him — to 
come  and  pay  me  a  visit. 

"This  charming  friend  was  so  delighted 
to  find  me  in  that  heap  of  humanity  that  I 
felt  as  though  I  were  being  fairly  raised  from 
my  mattress.  I  liked  to  pretend  to  myself 
that  it  was  Helen  who  had  sent  him  to  me. 

"So  we  began  to  talk,  and  we  talked  on 
and  on,  as  if  we  were  not  in  a  field  hospital, 
beside  an  operating-table,  but  at  the  famous 
Baraduc's,  taking  a  lesson  in  the  *  Turkey 
Trot '  or '  Hesitation  Waltz ' !  He  would  say, 
*Do  you  remember  .  .  .?'  and  I  would  an- 
swer, *  Yes . . . !  And  do  you  remember . . .  ?* 

"  We  were  so  happy ! 

"Suddenly  he  asked  me:  'What  can  I  do 
for  you?' 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       153 

"I  was  always  tortured  with  thirst.  I 
said:  'Find  me  some  champagne.' 

"You  can  imagine  how  jokingly  I  said 
this  word  'champagne.'  I  might  as  well 
have  said  'caviar'  or  the  'moon.'  But  he 
sprang  up  declaring:  'I'll  get  you  some.' 

"I  wanted  to  detain  him,  to  explain  that 
I  was  only  joking;  that  I  would  much  rather 
have  him  spend  with  me  whatever  time  he, 
had.  But  already  he  had  gone. 

"He  did  n't  return  until  four  hours  later. 
He  brought  with  him  a  bottle  of  real  cham- 
pagne. What  he  told  me  seemed  as  miracu- 
lous as  all  the  rest. 

"Two  days  previous  he  had  taken  a 
squad  of  Uhlans  by  surprise  in  a  neighbor- 
ing village,  and  put  them  to  rout.  There- 
upon an  old  peasant,  whom  the  Germans 
had  taken  time  to  ill-use,  threw  himself  on 
Dombrowsky's  breast.  He  said:  'If  ever 
the  longing  takes  you  to  drink  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  remember  me.  I  promise  to 
find  you  one.' 

"So,  when  I  asked  for  champagne,  he 
recalled  this  promise,  sprang  on  to  his  horse, 


154       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

and  went  to  find  the  grateful  peasant.  He 
claimed  the  fulfilment  of  his  pledge,  which 
it  seems  delighted  the  old  man,  who,  with 
great  alacrity,  dug  up  a  bottle  which  he 
had  buried  at  the  foot  of  a  walnut  tree, 
and  Dombrowsky  brought  it  back  to  me. 

"We  drank  it  as  though  it  were  the  elixir 
of  life.  I  say  'we,'  for  you  won't  be  sur- 
prised when  I  tell  you  that  my  two  com- 
panions on  the  mattress  were  invited  to 
touch  glasses  with  us. 

"This  was  the  end  of  my  adventures.  A 
few  hours  later  I  was  lifted  carefully  into  a 
motor  ambulance  and  transferred  here.  The 
director  was  kind  enough  to  act  as  secretary. 
I  dictated  a  letter  to  him  for  Helen,  another 
one  for  you.  And  you  came  to  me. 

"When  I  try  to  sum  up  in  my  memory 
my  short  campaign,  I  feel  rather  sore.  I 
had  promised  you  all,  you,  Helen,  Marie- 
Rose,  to  do  my  best.  How  glad  I  would 
have  been  of  a  better  chance  to  keep  my 
word.  All  those  weeks  of  preparation,  long 
marches,  counter-marches,  the  days  in  the 
trenches,  the  reconnaissances,  the  rain,  the 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       155 

bombarding;  all  that  counts  for  nothing. 
My  effort  really  began  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
where  I  received  the  order  to  go  ahead, 
leading  my  section  in  a  bayonet  attack  at 
the  crest  of  the  hill.  It  was  then  half-past 
three.  At  four  o'clock,  I  was  stretched  on 
the  ground.  My  war  lasted  one  half-hour 
and  three  hundred  metres." 

This  is  my  son's  story,  as  he  told  it  to 
me  on  that  October  evening,  on  the  hospital 
bed,  which  he  will  leave  only  to  be  laid 
under  the  earth. 

Under  pretext  of  sending  these  details 
to  his  fiancee  and  his  sister,  I  wrote  almost 
to  his  dictation. 

If,  in  the  years  to  come,  when  our  present 
misery  has  become  a  legend  of  glory,  some 
youth  of  our  family  —  I  can  no  longer  say, 
of  my  name  —  should  chance  to  read  this 
story,  may  he  find  in  it  the  love  of  honor, 
the  love  of  France. 

In  memory  of  the  dear  son  who  dictated 
these  lines,  and  of  myself,  his  father,  who 
noted  them,  at  the  foot  of  his  death-bed.  ^ 


XXX 

It  IS  a  quarter  of  a  century  now  since  I 
crossed  the  Sahara  Desert,  from  southern 
Morocco  to  southern  Tunis,  with  a  mihtary 
expedition,  during  the  dog  days,  on  a  drome- 
dary. On  this  exploring  trip  I  first  learned 
what  it  means  to  be  thirsty — a  thirst  that 
goes  beyond  the  lips,  seems  to  dry  up  the 
tongue,  the  throat,  going  down  into  the  very 
chest,  until  one  becomes  almost  delirious. 
But  at  the  moment  of  our  worst  torture,  we 
were  sure  of  one  thing:  every  advance  step 
of  the  beasts  we  were  mounted  on  shortened 
our  misery.  The  vast  dune  was  vanishing 
behind  us :  the  oasis  was  drawing  nearer. 

Within  these  four  hospital  walls  I  am 
shut  up  with  a  traveller  whose  thirst  will 
never  more  be  quenched. 

The  pity  felt  for  him  on  all  sides  places 
in  my  hands  fresh  milk,  champagne,  the 
purest  of  water.  His  eyes  follow  me  with 
heartrending  fixity  as  I  try,  in  the  hope  of 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       157 

making  the  time  seem  shorter,  to  vary  the 
different  beverages,  so  eagerly  waited  for. 
He  says:  "Now  I  want  some  champagne 
and  water.  .  .  .  Now  give  me  a  little  milk 
and  Vichy.  ...  A  little  water  alone.  ...  Is 
the  ice  all  melted?" 

Alas !  He  has  drunk  of  death.  The  bitter 
taste  burns  his  throat. 

While  he  was  telling  me  his  calvary  I 
saw  his  lips  grow  dry  and  more  dry.  The 
moments  grew  oftener  when  he  stopped, 
almost  as  frequent  as  his  heart-beats,  to 
beg  for  a  taste  of  something  refreshing. 

How  he  must  have  suffered  before  I  was 
with  him,  when  he  called  the  orderlies,  who 
could  only  turn  a  deaf  ear,  as  they  hastened 
to  some  other  sufferer ! 

Don't  beg  my  pardon,  my  child,  for  mak- 
ing me  get  up  so  often.  It  is  a  joy  for  me 
to  wait  on  you  as  long  as  you  shall  ask  it. 
Command  me!  Be  capricious  if  you  will! 
Ask  for  what  you  want ! 

When,  after  a  long  pause,  in  which  you 
have  summoned  all  your  patience  in  order 
to  spare  me,  I  hand  you  a  glass,  all  moist 


158       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

from  the  ice  within,  you  say  to  me:  "I  am 
dreaming  that  some  day  I  shall  be  in  a  place 
where  I  can  have  as  much  water  as  I  want, 
as  much  as  ever  I  want." 

I  turn  aside  to  hide  my  face,  for  in  your 
eyes  I  have  seen  the  vision  of  Paradise. 


XXXI 

I  CAN  no  longer  postpone  paying  my 
respects  to  the  military  authorities.  I  want 
also  to  ask  their  permission  to  prolong  my 
stay. 

My  friend,  the  priest  chauffeur,  drives 
me  down  to  the  city. 

The  place  is  empty  of  all  its  inhabitants. 
Exiled,  they  have  left  their  doors  closed, 
their  shutters  drawn.  The  shopkeepers  have 
riveted  the  heavy  blinds  on  their  show  win- 
dows. And  the  old  residential  quarters  show 
long  rows  of  flat  silent  walls,  overgrown, 
here  and  there,  by  some  vine,  some  green 
plant  of  a  deserted  garden. 

The  young  women,  the  little  children, 
whose  presence,  as  they  walked  about,  en- 
livened the  public  squares,  the  principal 
streets  of  the  town,  have  been  replaced  by 
a  world  of  soldiers.  All  uniforms,  all  grades, 
are  to  be  seen  here. 

No  one  is  idle.    Each  one,  the  bearer  of 


i6o       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

some  order,  hurries  toward  some  definite 
duty.  People  walk  in  the  street  as  freely  as 
on  the  sidewalk.  From  time  to  time  the 
harsh  cry  of  a  motor  parts  the  crowd  of 
pedestrians :  some  superior  officer,  wrapped 
in  his  great-coat,  flashes  by.  Or  some  heavy 
truck,  that  seems  too  long,  too  broad,  for 
the  winding  way  of  these  streets,  built  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  passes,  shaking  the  old 
houses  to  their  foundations.  Or  some  squad 
of  cavalrymen  files  by,  their  swords  swing- 
ing with  a  slight  clinking  of  chains,  the  so- 
norous trampling  of  their  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  ancient  paving-stones. 

My  little  priest  knows  the  town  like  his 
own  checked  pocket  handkerchief.  He  takes 
me  first  to  the  house  of  the  General  of  the 
Et at- Major,  and  then  to  that  of  the  Gover- 
nor-General of  the  place. 

I  bring  them  a  breath  of  Paris,  to  these 
exiled  officers,  words  that  cannot  now  ap- 
pear in  print,  but  which,  some  day,  will  go 
to  make  up  history,  for  they  bear  witness 
to  this  fact:  France,  though  tortured,  con- 
tinues to  smile. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       i6i 

And,  too,  I  don't  conceal  from  them  my 
own  grief.  In  my  present  state  of  mind  it  is 
a  comfort  to  me  that  the  blotting-out  of  a 
little  lieutenant,  who  has  done  his  duty 
faithfully,  stands  out  against  the  gigantic 
slaughter  going  on,  shines  in  the  splendor 
of  a  sacrifice  which  has  become  universal. 

The  Governor-General  of  the  place  says 
to  me:  "I  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  your  son. 
You  have  brought  the  boy  up  well.  I  con- 
gratulate you." 

^  At  the  Etat-Major,  a  certain  Major 
Etienne  —  I  shall  never  forget  him  —  says 
to  me  as  I  take  leave  of  him:  "A  young  and 
glorious  comrade  who  dies  without  a  mur- 
mur, a  father  who  refuses  to  weep  for  him! 
What  an  example !  —  We  all  need  examples. 
Come  often  to  see  us." 

I  came  up  the  steps  of  the  building  with 
a  heavy  heart.  I  leave  feeling  somewhat 
stronger.  They  have  given  me  permission 
to  stay  on  as  long  as  I  like.  My  child  will 
not  see  me  leave  him.  I  shall  be  able  to 
remain  by  his  side  until  his  eyes  grow  dim. 
Death  alone  now  can  drive  me  away. 


XXXII 

To-day,  at  two  o'clock,  when  I  went 
into  his  ward,  I  received  a  shock.  It  is  a 
new  Robert  I  see  on  the  bed. 

The  wounded  man  of  yesterday,  for  whom 
every  word  was  a  cause  of  suffering,  has  dis- 
appeared. In  his  place  I  see  a  radiant  per- 
son. The  accident,  whatever  it  be,  which 
keeps  him  stretched  out  at  full  length, 
does  n't  affect  his  mind  or  his  freedom  of 
speech.  He  is  bubbling  over  with  confi- 
dences.   His  lips  move  on,  almost  volubly. 

He  says:  "I  have  been  thinking  things 
over  in  the  night  and  I  have  decided  we 
must  not  miss  the  chance  of  renting  the 
apartment  I  went  to  visit  with  Helen,  the 
end  of  July.  .  .  .  We  liked  it  so  much! .  .  . 
You  know,  Quai  Malaquais.  .  .  .  Overlook- 
ing the  Seine.  The  house  is  rather  old  and 
we  supposed  it  would  be  insufficiently 
heated.  But  Helen  will  have  the  light  she 
needs  for  her  painting  and  I  shall  be  just 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       163 

around  the  comer  from  my  office.  If  you  go 
back  to  Paris  before  I  do,  please  go  to  see 
if  the  sign  To  Let  is  still  hanging  over  the 
door." 

I  look  at  my  child  with  stupefaction.  He 
takes  no  heed  of  me,  however,  for  just  now 
he  is  talking  from  the  bottom  of  his  happy 
heart.  A  mysterious  hand  has  turned  the 
obscure  dial  which  was  hiding  from  him  his 
"to-morrow."  He  is  living  over  again  the 
dreams  he  dreamed  before  the  war.  He  is 
deep  in  his  plans.  He  carries  me  away  with 
him. 

With  a  smile  he  dispels  my  anxiety. 

"You  don't  feel  feverish?"  I  ask  him. 

And  he  answers:  "Not  at  all!  I  want  to 
tell  you  something  which  may  at  first  sight 
seem  rather  mad  to  you.  You  remember  the 
Arabian  servant  we  used  to  have,  Amara?" 

The  name  recalls  a  native  horseman, 
whom,  twenty  years  before,  I  had  brought 
back  with  me  to  Paris,  from  his  Algerian 
mountain-top,  to  care  for  my  horse.  His 
Chechia,  his  little  blue  jacket,  his  full  red 
trousers,  his    spurs,  created  a   sensation 


i64       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

among  the  maidservants  from  the  Avenue 
de  VilHers  to  the  Place  Malesherbes. 

He  could  do  anything  and  everything, 
like  all  those  of  his  race  who  have  been 
trained  at  the  bordjs  by  the  functionaries* 
wives. 

"You  have  n't  forgotten  him?"  he  asks. 
"Well,  I  don't  know  how,  but  away  off  in 
his  province  of  Oran,  Amara  heard  that  I 
was  to  be  married.  He  wrote  to  me.  He 
asked  me  to  take  him  into  my  service.  He 
said  I  must  remember  what  a  good  cook  he 
is,  and  that  he  knows  also  how  to  wash  and 
iron  and  all  the  rest.  Have  n't  you  often  told 
me  yourself  that  he  was  the  first  nurse 
Marie-Rose  had.?  He  would  make  a  won- 
derful man-of-all  work  for  us !  Helen  is  like 
me  in  this  respect:  she  enjoys  picturesque 
things." 

I  have  just  time  to  answer:  "Of  course, 
my  dear  child." 

Already  his  fancy  is  chasing  another  but- 
terfly in  the  sunlight. 

This  goes  on  for  two  long  hours  —  all 
too  short  for  him.   Then,  by  degrees,  his 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       165 

thoughts  grow  more  sombre,  become  more 
melancholy,  until  at  last  he  says  to  me :  "All 
that  is  only  a  dream!  I  have  been  dream- 
ing." 

...  On  the  threshold  of  the  big  ward,  I 
run  across  the  chief  surgeon.  He  sees  how 
disturbed  I  am.  He  says  to  relieve  me: 
"The  lieutenant  was  in  great  pain  during 
the  night,  so  we  increased  his  usual  dose  of 
morphine.  You  were  with  him  in  a  moment 
of  elation!" 


XXXIII 

I  OUGHT  to  be  glad  that  he  can  know  in 
this  way  moments  of  forgetfulness  before 
the  hour  comes  when  he  shall  have  for- 
gotten all.  Then  why  do  I  feel  a  sob  in  my 
throat?    . 

I  must  walk  off  this  agitation,  quiet  the 
beating  of  my  poor  heart. 

I  pass  out  of  the  hospital  gate.  I  wander 
on  aimlessly.  My  steps  seem  to  be  guided 
for  me. 

In  August,  my  child  had  spoken  to  me 
in  one  of  his  letters  about  a  thirteenth- 
century  church,  which  is  one  of  the  treas- 
ures of  this  ancient  city.  It  is  reached 
through  a  cloister  which  opens  on  to  a 
little  square. 

One  day,  when  he  chanced  to  be  in  the 
town,  doing  errands  for  the  regiment,  he 
went  for  a  moment,  as  though  to  shelter 
there  his  faith  and  his  love,  in  this  church. 

I  am  glad  to  be  there  alone  now. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       167 

The  church  is  as  empty  as  the  city.  The 
last  rays  of  the  sun  illuminate  the  stained- 
glass  windows,  the  splendors  of  Paradise, 
as  the  glory  of  the  Middle  Ages  conceived 
them.  A  few  candles  shine  out  like  pale 
stars,  lighted  in  haste  by  some  passing 
soldiers  who  have  stopped  here  a  moment 
on  the  way  to  combat. 

Here  is  the  baptismal  font,  where,  for 
centuries,  joyous  processions  have  carried 
the  newborn.  Here  is  the  altar,  where,  for 
generations,  the  young  couples  who  have 
chosen  each  other  tenderly  have  knelt  to 
bind  their  love  and  their  dreams  in  the  vows 
of  eternity.  Here  are  the  stones,  worn  down 
by  the  weight  of  those  who  are  wrapped  in 
their  shrouds. 

I  shall  kneel  here,  O  God!  as  I  turn  to 
Thee  in  supplication. 

For  twenty  years  I  went  my  way,  a  son 
on  either  side  of  me.  They  were  my  honor. 
I  did  not  consider  that  they  belonged  to 
me  more  than  they  did  to  God.  I  did  not 
forget  that  God  gives  life,  and  that  it  is 
His  to  take  again. 


i68       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

When  He  took  my  first  son  I  bowed  my 
head.  I  do  not  question  now  His  taking 
my  only  remaining  boy.  But,  when  I  put 
this  last  child  in  the  tomb,  will  my  faith 
be  buried  with  him.?  I  ask  myself  this 
question  in  all  humility. 

Science  itself,  which  certain  men  of  my 
generation  have  made  their  dogma,  remains 
a  mystery  for  me,  as  deep  a  mystery  as  the 
mysteries  of  God.  I  have  read  their  books. 
I  admire  their  effort  to  search  out  the  truth. 
What  I  have  been  able  to  grasp  through 
them  does  not  deprive  me  of  the  hope  that 
the  beloved  forms  we  have  loved,  and 
whose  substance  is  of  dust  and  returns  to 
dust,  are  each  and  all  animated  by  the 
breath  of  God. 

It  is  His  will  that  still  again  one  of  these 
precious  apparitions  must  slip  from  my 
grasp.  After  so  many  sorrows  I  must  now 
see  my  son  go,  my  last  son,  the  end  of  our 
lineage.  At  this  moment,  when  I  so  long 
to  be  comforted,  what  do  I  see  ? 

I  know  how  brave  this  dying  boy  of  mine 
is.    Neither  physical  pain  nor  any  other 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       169 

can  wring  from  him  the  cry  he  does  not 
want  me  to  hear,  and  which  would  seem 
Hke  a  reproach  to  God. 

When  his  sufferings  overcome  him,  he 
pretends  that  he  needs  to  rest,  and  he  asks 
me  to  leave  him  for  a  time  so  that  I  shall 
not  be  saddened  by  the  sight  of  his  misery. 
Yet,  to-day,  I  found  him  suddenly  envel- 
oped in  joy. 

He  was  beginning  a  new  life,  the  hopes 
he  had  relinquished  were  all  renewed  again. 
He  was  going  to  recover.  He  formulated 
plans  for  future  work.  He  felt  the  hand  of 
his  fiancee  in  his,  his  heart  overflowing 
with  her  response  to  his  love.  He  smiled 
at  me  without  a  cloud  on  his  face.  He 
said  to  me:  "When  are  we  to  leave  here?" 

This  hope,  which  blinds  him,  and  which 
crucifies  me,  is  a  lie.  He  does  not  find  its 
source  in  his  faith  in  God,  nor  in  his  con- 
sideration for  me.  Its  gentle  blessing  has 
not  entered  his  soul  through  any  miracle 
of  divine  grace :  it  has  sprung  from  a  poison 
contained  in  a  bottle;  it  is  passed  into  his 
veins  through  a  needle-point.    One  dose 


170       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

calms  the  sufiFering  caused  by  his  wound; 
another  dose  relieves  the  agony  of  his  mind; 
still  another  stronger  dose  restores  him  to 
happiness. 

Meanwhile,  where  is  his  soul?  Where  is 
the  soul  of  my  son  which  I  struggle  to  think 
of  as  having  an  existence  apart  from  the 
body  which  I  shall  lay  away  in  the  tomb  ? 

What  becomes  of  this  soul,  intangible, 
immaterial,  immortal,  spiritual,  the  soul 
which  I  am  determined  to  seek  in  God? 
Which  is  right,  my  grief  appalled  at  the 
thought  of  annihilation,  when  I  see  my 
child's  death  agony,  or  the  voice  which 
affirms:  "The  thoughts,  the  breathing,  the 
feelings,  all  the  phenomena  you  are  observ- 
ing, are  the  results  of  a  unique  mechanism. 
The  whole  thing  will  stop  at  a  given  mo- 
ment, and  forever." 

O  God,  forbid  that  my  faith  should  per- 
ish! Deliver  me  from  temptation! 


XXXIV 

"We  are  playing  a  delicate  game,"  the 
chief  surgeon  says  to  me  with  his  Celtic 
smile,  —  so  kindly,  so  sad.  .  .  .  "Our  chief 
anxiety,  you  see,  is  that  the  magic  of  the 
poison  should  outlast  the  resistance  of  our 
patient." 

So  I  must  resign  myself  to  it  as  to  every- 
thing else.  From  to-day  on,  my  child,  I 
shall  follow  you  in  these  two  existences 
without  a  murmur. 

When  I  feel  the  veil  of  illusion  vanishing 
away  and  the  shadow  descending  upon 
your  brow,  I,  too,  have  a  talisman  to  turn 
to.  It  prolongs  on  your  precious  face  the 
light  that  soon  shall  have  faded. 

I  ask  in  a  low  tone:  "Suppose  we  read 
over  some  of  Helen's  letters  .f*" 

The  reply  is  always  the  same:  "I  was 
just  going  to  ask  you  that." 

When  I  arrived  here  these  love-letters 


172       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

were  all  tucked  away  on  a  shelf  at  the  head 
of  his  bed.  Sometimes  he  would  reach  up 
and  touch  them.  He  did  not  open  them, 
however,  for  the  writing  —  clear  and  dis- 
tinct as  it  is  —  dances  before  his  eyes  so 
that  he  cannot  make  it  out.  But  he  knew 
the  letters  were  there. 

I  have  put  them  in  their  proper  order. 
They  were  with  him  in  the  rain,  under  fire. 
He  lay  on  them  when  he  was  for  hours  in 
such  agony,  alone,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill. 
He  carried  one  of  them  on  his  heart ;  it  is 
stained  with  blood. 

They  tell  of  the  love  of  a  young  girl, 
these  charming  love-letters,  so  tender.  They 
count  the  days.  They  speak  of  the  unbear- 
able anxiety.  They  follow  on  the  map  every 
step  of  the  absent  one.  They  urge  him  not 
to  be  too  reckless ;  they  cherish  his  courage. 
They  allude  to  the  short  past,  which,  for 
two  happy  children,  was  a  lifetime.  They 
evoke  a  future  in  which  all  their  happiness 
shall  be  illuminated  by  glorious  memories. 
They  hold  a  hope  which  binds  together 
heaven  and  earth. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       173 

I  read  them  and  my  poor  sufferer  drinks 
them  in. 

He  never  wearies  of  listening  to  me  spin 
out  this  brief  romance  of  his  engagement. 
Some  of  the  letters  leave  him  dreamy; 
others  make  him  smile.  He  has  his  favor- 
ites. He  loves  them  all. 

He  suffers  to  think  that  a  single  one  of 
these  notes,  traced  by  a  beloved  hand,  may 
perhaps  be  waiting  behind  the  postman's 
window.  So,  every  day,  our  reading  ends 
with  the  same  request : 

*' To-morrow  morning,  while  my  wound 
is  being  dressed,  would  you  go  down  to 
the  post-office  in  the  town?  I  would  be  so 
grateful  to  you!  By  this  time  Helen  must 
have  received  the  letter  Jean- Jose  sent  her. 
She  knows  I  have  been  wounded.  Poor 
little  Helen!" 


XXXV 

• 

My  daily  visit  to-the  post-office  produces 
on  me  the  same  impression  as  my  hasty 
promenades  across  the  hospital  wards. 
They  teach  me  a  wholesome  lesson  in 
brotherly  love. 

To  be  sure  I  try  not  to  allow  my  misery 
to  hide  from  me  the  sufferings  of  others, 
but  the  grief  which  seeks  isolation  is  in 
danger  of  becoming  blind ;  it  seems  to  be- 
come for  itself,  like  love,  the  centre  of  the 
world. 

In  this  military  post-office  I  come  in 
contact  with  the  anguish,  the  tenderness 
of  others  who  love  as  I  do,  fathers,  mothers, 
wives,  and  husbands,  brothers  and  sisters, 
fiancees,  sweethearts;  their  longing  to  see 
each  other  fills  the  sacks  piled  up  here  on 
the  ground,  heaped  up  in  the  corners,  ever 
added  to  by  fresh  arrivals. 

Day  and  night,  around  all  sorts  of  tables, 
snatched  haphazard  from  deserted  wine- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       175 

shops,  the  soldiers  are  sorting,  sealing,  ty- 
ing. They  have  been  told  to  make  haste. 
Their  own  good-will  prods  them  on  faster 
than  any  order.  They  don't  forget  it  for  a 
moment:  all  that  they  handle  here  is  the 
expression  of  some  farewell,  a  kiss  of  adieu. 

Where  is  he  to  be  found  now  —  such  and 
such  a  soldier,  of  the  19th  Company  of  the 
3S6th  Regiment,  i4Sth  Brigade,  73d  Divi- 
sion, 20th  Army  Corps.?  A  few  days  ago, 
not  a  dozen  kilometres  from  here,  his  bat- 
talion was  shot  to  pieces.  Is  he  waiting  his 
letters  in  some  hospital?  At  the  depot .f* 
In  the  trenches,  or  under  the  earth? 

So  it  is  with  all  the  others.  And  yet 
these  simple  fellows  never  grow  weary  of 
their  heavy  task.  They  turn  over  the 
mussy  envelopes,  all  these  cards  without 
stamps,  as  though  they  were  so  many  bank- 
notes, a  fortune  which  has  been  entrusted 
to  their  keeping. 

The  window,  where  I  ask  for  mail  every 
day,  is  the  last  one  in  the  office.  The  em- 
ployes have  grown  to  know  me.  When  they 
have  finished  counting  up  the  words  in  my 


176       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

telegrams,  which  daily,  in  one  form  or  an- 
other, repeat  the  same  lamentable  story, 
"He  is  holding  his  own  ...  He  is  thinking 
of  you  ...  He  says  over  your  names  .  .  ." 
these  witnesses  of  my  distress  look  at  me 
with  pity.  They  are  happy  when  they  have 
letters  for  us.  They  don't  like  to  have  to 
say,  "Nothing  as  yet ..." 

These  letters,  when  they  come,  hide  the 
truth  also.  It  has  been  agreed  among  us 
that  Marie-Rose  and  the  other  members 
of  the  family,  and  our  own  friends,  are  to 
write  as  though  I  had  come  merely  to  help 
my  boy  through  a  convalescence.  They  all 
speak  of  the  joy  of  seeing  him  again,  of 
the  welcome  waiting  him  and  the  reward 
he  so  well  deserves. 

It  is  difficult  to  read  such  messages  aloud 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed  without  my  eyes  be- 
traying my  feeling,  without  letting  my 
voice  falter. 

It  is  my  boy's  desire  that  those  who  love 
him  shall  not  be  saddened  too  soon. 


XXXVI 

This  morning,  as  I  was  coming  back 
from  the  Etat-Major,  I  ran  across  my 
friend  and  Robert's,  standing  on  a  street 
comer,  Lieutenant  Jean- Jose. 

The  last  time  I  had  seen  him  was  in  the 
foyer  of  a  Paris  theatre,  on  a  "first  night'* 
of  one  of  his  plays.  Friends  were  crowding 
around  him  to  congratulate  him  on  his 
success. 

War  and  all  he  has  been  through  have 
given  him  an  added  touch  of  youth  —  alert, 
resolute,  in  spite  of  the  cane  he  is  obliged 
to  use,  and  the  double  rent  in  the  knee  of  his 
trousers  where  the  ball  went  in  and  came 
out. 

The  flash  of  joy  which  lighted  up  his  face 
when  he  first  caught  sight  of  me  vanishes 
at  once ;  he  realizes  what  my  presence  here 
signifies. 

"And  Robert?"  he  says.  "Poor  fellow! 
I  went  through  alternate  stages  of  hope 


178       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

and  despair  about  him  —  when  I  saw  him 
first,  on  the  night  after  the  battle,  by  the 
light  of  a  little  lamp  lying  on  the  straw 
in  the  corner  of  a  farmhouse  kitchen.  I 
thought  all  was  up  with  him.  The  priest 
who  had  been  talking  with  him  said  to  me : 
'  He  is  wandering  in  his  mind.  .  .  /  I  left 
him  overwhelmed.  Then,  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  was  looking  like  himself  again.  He 
asked  me  to  write  to  his  fiancee.  He  wanted 
me  to  send  her  a  reassuring  message.  I  did 
it  before  having  my  wound  dressed,  and 
after  that  we  did  not  see  each  other  again. 
I  was  sent  here  to  a  hospital  in  the  town. 
I  have  been  on  my  back  for  a  week." 

In  a  low  tone  he  asks:  "Then,  there  is 
no  hope?"  And  brusquely,  "Come,  let's 
have  a  look  at  him  .  .  ." 

Jean- Jose  enters  the  room.  He  is  greeted 
with  a  bound  of  joy.  My  patient's  face 
looks  like  some  dismal  facade  whose  win- 
dows have  all  been  suddenly  thrown  open; 
the  light  streams  in,  and  the  outward  land- 
scape is  reflected  in  every  mirror. 
-   This  handsome  fellow,  standing  beside 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       179 

his  bed,  his  hand  outstretched,  has  been  his 
confidant  during  the  hours  when  one  mocks 
at  the  idea  of  death.  For  a  moment  they 
laugh  together,  as  gayly  as  though  the  war 
had  been  long  since  ended,  as  though  they 
were  recalling  its  charming  side,  already 
growing  dim  in  their  memories;  as  though 
they  were  delighting  together  in  the  ad- 
ventures of  their  valiant  young  days.  But 
even  such  joys  are  short-lived,  and  in  a 
moment  they  are  recalling  the  details  of 
the  attack.  They  are  still  happy  at  being 
together,  but  now  they  no  longer  smile. 

The  questions  follow  each  other  rapidly: 

"The  captain?" 

"Dead." 

"Lieutenant  Pascal,  our  little  Saint-Cyr 
boy  who  dashed  out  under  fire  with  his 
white  gloves?" 

"Killed." 

"And  the  two  majors  .  .  .  ?  And  my  poor 
men...?" 

It  is  a  sinister  review  of  spectres.  The 
regiment  has  dwindled  to  nothing  under 
the  enemy's  fire. 


i8o      ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

Robert  stops  to  think  for  a  moment  and 
then  he  says:  "You  and  I  behaved  very 
decently." 

"You  more  than  I."  And,  turning  to  me, 
Jean-Jose  says :  "  Has  he  told  you  what  he 
did  on  the  hill-top?  ...  Of  course  not! 
He  has  given  you  a  general  idea,  but  I'm 
sure  you  don't  know  this :  When  he  decided 
the  time  had  come  for  him  to  go  in  search 
of  the  major  for  orders,  he  came  down  the 
slope,  facing  the  enemy,  facing  the  shot, 
standing  and  walking  backward.  When 
I  shouted  to  him,  'You  are  mad!  What 
do  you  mean?'  he  responded  by  this  one 
sentence,  characteristically  French;  and 
which  ought  to  be  mentioned  in  the  army's 
despatches:  'I  don't  want  to  be  shot  in  the 
back!'" 

I  look  at  my  child. 

He  is  flushing  slightly:  "I  didn't  want 
my  men  to  suppose  I  was  going  off  on  a 
walk  for  my  own  pleasure." 

The  two  clasp  hands  a  moment,  these 
two  friends  who  are  not  to  see  each  other 
again. 


XXXVII 

As  on  the  day  of  my  arrival,  here  I  am 
again,  seated  in  the  office  of  the  director. 
He  has  removed  his  Httle  police  cap  which 
becomes  him  so  well.  His  brown  eyes, 
golden  like  his  beard,  study  me  with  a 
charitable  compassion. 

"I  heard  you  say,"  he  begins,  "that  you 
wantedtotakeyour  son  away.  .  .  afterward. 
Perhaps  you  can  obtain  permission  before 
the  war  is  over.  In  any  case  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  regulations  for  such 
undertaking.  .  .  .  Wood  .  .  .  lead.  .  .  .  We 
have  neither  here.  I  have  just  received 
notice  from  the  city  that  they  have  only 
one  coffin  left.  We  shall  not  receive  any 
more  for  some  time  to  come.  If  you  want 
this  one  you  must  buy  it  at  once.  I  know 
how  brave  you  are,  and  I  thought  you 
would  rather  have  me  tell  you  this." 

To  think  ahead,  it  is  the  proof  of  friend- 
ship and  of  love.  Mothers  don't  wait  until 


1 82       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

their  children  are  born  to  prepare  a  cradle 
for  them.  I  must  do  as  they. 

The  director  is  ready  to  accompany  me 
to  the  city.  He  will  take  me  to  see  the  car- 
penter who  deals  in  these  last  sheets  of  zinc, 
these  last  planks  of  oak. 

He  is  a  frontiersman,  half  Lorraine,  half 
Alsatian,  cordial  and  hearty,  with  an  ample 
figure. 

I  tell  him  what  has  happened  to  my 
child  as  though  my  own  reasons  for  find- 
ing him  heroic  could  modify  anything  in 
the  making  of  a  coffin.  As  answer  the  car- 
penter wants  to  explain  what  excellent 
materials  he  uses : 

"The  oak  I  am  going  to  give  you  you 
could  not  buy  in  Paris.  It  is  the  finest  to 
be  had  in  French  Lorraine,  from  the  moun- 
tains, near  the  village  where  I  was  born. 
If  you  happen  to  go  there  you  will  hear  my 
family  well  spoken  of,  I  assure  you! .  .  . 
'Boissec! .  .  .  Patriots  every  one  of  them! 
.  .  .  Always  ready  to  open  a  bottle  of  wine 
for  a  soldier  who  needs  to  be  refreshed  on 
his  march.'   Your  child  could  n't  be  com- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR        183 

forted  any  more  by  a  swallow  of  wine.  But 
we'll  take  care  of  him!  You  can  rely  on  a 
Boissec  as  though  you  were  one  of  the  fam- 
ily yourself!  Since  1793,  sir,  we  can  count 
back  one  hundred  and  ten  Boissecs  who 
have  been  killed  fighting  for  their  coun- 
try." 

I  know,  my  dear  man,  our  generation 
are  not  the  inventors  of  trials  and  sacri- 
fices—  other  sons  have  died  before  mine. 
But  the  far-away  griefs  of  these  distant  an- 
cestors are  like  the  withered  leaves  of  by- 
gone days  fallen  at  the  foot  of  some  oak 
tree.  What  counts  for  us  is  the  first  ver- 
dure of  the  early  spring  which  spread  like 
a  crown  over  the  tree  and  which  offered 
its  shade  to  the  traveller,  weary  with  the 
labors  of  the  day. 

To  satisfy  this  Boissec  I  comply  with  all 
he  proposes.  I  taste  his  wine,  I  feel  of  his 
timber,  I  choose  the  metal  mountings  he 
picks  out  for  me.  I  even  accept  —  Heaven 
have  pity  on  me !  —  this  overwhelming  con- 
dition: "When  the  coffin  is  ready  you  will 
have  to  take  it  away  at  once —  I  could  n't 


1 84       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

guard  it  against  the  supplications  of  others 
who  want  it  as  much  as  you  do.  If  they 
offered  some  enormous  price,  I  'd  have  to  let 
it  go.  I  could  only  give  you  your  money 
back.  You  '11  be  easier^  diable !  when  you  've 
got  the  thing  in  your  own  keeping!" 

You  are  right,  my  dear  Boissec,  I  shall 
be  easier.  I  don't  want  my  child,  before 
the  warmth  has  even  left  his  body,  to  be 
placed,  naked,  under  the  earth. 


XXXVIII 

As  I  was  getting  into  the  priest's  motor 
a  soldier  touched  my  arm.  He  has  a  tele- 
gram for  me  which  has  been  delayed  nearly 
four  hours  on  the  way,  owing  to  some  er- 
ror in  transmission.  It  is  a  despatch  from 
Helen. 

She  says:  "Arrive  to-morrow  morning 
with  my  mother." 

I  was  sure  that  this  brave  child  would 
come  to  bid  her  fiancee  farewell.  But  "to- 
morrow morning"  is  to-day.  It  is  almost 
ten  now  and  the  train  was  due  at  eight 
o'clock. 

At  the  station  they  say  several  people 
have  arrived  coming  from  the  direction  of 
Paris.  No  one  has  noticed  a  young  girl. 
What  has  become  of  these  two  poor  women 
in  the  face  of  the  rigorous  sentinels?  I  am 
so  preoccupied  about  them,  my  Robert, 
that  I  have  scarcely  time  to  think  of  you  — 
of  your  emotion  at  seeing  "her"  again. 


i86       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

The  priest's  automobile  carries  me  off  at 
top  speed. 

At  the  foot  of  the  short  cut  which  mounts 
abruptly  to  the  hospital  gate,  I  see  Helen 
and  her  mother.  They  are  on  their  way 
back  to  the  town ;  they  walk  slowly,  one  a 
little  behind  the  other,  and  without  ex- 
changing a  word.  Each  one  is  plunged  in 
the  solitude  of  her  own  personal  sorrow. 

Have  they  been  turned  away  from  the 
hospital  ? 

No,  they  have  seen  him,  and  this  vision 
has  struck  Helen  like  a  thunderbolt.  Her 
thoughts  are  upon  the  calvary  she  has  just 
mounted;  my  tender  thanks  to  her  are 
addressed  to  an  absent  soul. 

**My  own  daughter!  I  shall  cherish  you 
always  for  having  brought  him  this  last 

joy!"  . 

She  is  not  listening  to  what  I  say.  Her 
eyes  are  dull,  her  arms  hang  lifeless.  She 
murmurs:  "That  is  n't  Robert  I  saw! .  .  . 
That  isn't  Robert!" 

Alas!  my  dear  child,  what  could  you 
have  hoped  to  find  on  the  crest  of  the  hill 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       187 

yonder?  You  sped  toward  some  injured 
dream.  .  .  .  You  found  a  dying  man. 

Her  mother  says:  "You  must  excuse 
her.  .  .  .  You  see  how  she  is  suffering." 

What  must  I  excuse,  my  daughter.? 
That  you  should  be  grief-stricken?  He 
and  you  and  I,  we  are  three  broken-hearted 
beings. 


XXXIX 

Helen  weeps. 

In  the  poorly  lighted  room,  where  she 
and  I  have  taken  refuge  while  her  mother 
is  unpacking  their  modest  belongings,  she 
weeps.  Her  tears  flow  for  this  happiness 
that  might  have  been;  for  the  immense 
suffering  she  has  seen;  for  her  own  life 
which  is  broken. 

"How  happy  Robert  must  have  been  to 
see  you." 

"Yes! yes!  As  happy  as  he  could  be.  But 
already  he  has  gone  beyond  where  I  can 
reach  him.  We  see  each  other,  but  between 
us  there  seems  no  real  contact." 

I  take  her  poor  hands  in  mine.  She  wears 
the  ring  which  my  boy  placed  on  her  fin- 
ger in  token  of  her  promise  to  be  his  wife. 
It  is  a  diamond  which  his  mother  used  to 
wear  as  a  young  woman,  and  which  Robert 
has  had  mounted  with  a  setting  of  rubies. 

Helen  guesses  my  thoughts.  An  expres- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       189 

sion  of  anguish  crosses  her  brow.  She 
groans:  "Think  what  he  said  to  me  that 
last  night  in  August,  before  he  left  me! 
'If  God  wills  that  I  should  not  return,  my 
loving  wish  is  that  some  fine  man  may 
come  into  your  life,  to  protect  you,  as  I 
have  longed  to  do  myself.  But  he  would 
be  grieved  to  see  this  ring  on  your  finger. 
So  you  won't  wear  it.  But  if  you  ever  have 
a  daughter,  give  it  to  her,  when  she  is  en- 
gaged, in  memory  of  our  unfulfilled  happi- 
ness.'"   -^ 

She  wrings  her  hands  and  says:  "Just 
now  he  kept  looking  and  looking  at  this 
ring.  ...  Ah !  why  did  he  say  what  he  did 
when  we  were  about  to  part!" 

I  listen  to  her  and  it  seems  to  me  I  can 
see  our  old  house,  near  the  forest,  the  re- 
union on  the  day  the  engagement  was  an- 
nounced, when  all  the  young  friends  were 
gathered  around  our  table. 

That  was  scarcely  three  months  ago. 

I  looked  out  of  my  window  at  the  chest- 
nut tree  in  the  garden,  where,  ten  years  be- 
fore, I  had  seen  the  coffin  of  my  oldest  boy. 


190       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

And  I  thought  to  myself:  "Soon,  now,  in 
the  same  shadowy  spot  we  shall  shelter  a 
cradle.  A  young  mother  will  be  leaning 
over  this  new  little  life  beginning.  The 
chain  of  existence  shall  be  thus  continued.'' 


XL 


Robert  and  Helen  spend  the  day  alone 
together.  She  takes  my  place  giving  him 
water,  ice,  milk. 

Meanwhile,  Helen's  mother  and  I  stroll 
about  the  paths  of  the  garden.  Our  foot- 
steps sound  in  the  gravel  as  we  pass  under 
our  patient's  window. 

She  is  calm,  this  mother  of  Helen's.  So 
kind,  so  peaceful.  She  watches  her  child's 
sufferings  with  something  of  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  Madonnas  as  they  appear  in 
holy  pictures.  She  seems  to  be  saying: 
"Poor  little  girl!  You  supposed  that  per- 
fect happiness  was  possible  here  on  earth  ? 
You  had  forgotten  my  widow's  mourning." 

She  realizes  it,  this  mother:  I  shall  not 
be  any  more  selfish  in  my  love  for  her 
daughter  than  my  poor  boy  was. 

We  talk  together  of  Helen  as  though  my 
son  were  the  outsider,  as  though  she  be- 
longed to  us  both.    This  melancholy  ac- 


192       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

companiment  seems  to  suit  the  sad  duet 
which  these  two  young  souls  are  singing 
as  they  sit  side  by  side  behind  the  closed 
window  —  behind  the  smile,  which,  in 
their  misery,  they  force  themselves  heroi- 
cally to  wear.  For  I  understood,  from  what 
Helen  said,  my  beloved  son  keeps  the  same 
absolute  command  of  himself  with  his 
fiancee  as  he  does  always  with  me. 

Does  he  know  that  she  realizes  the  truth 
as  clearly  as  he  does  ?  At  all  events,  he  will 
ask  no  questions. 

Between  them,  until  the  last  moment, 
they  will  admit  but  the  certainty  of  seeing 
each  other  again. 

The  glance  he  gave  me,  when,  at  about 
four  o'clock,  I  went  into  his  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Helen's  mother,  showed  me  his 
determination  on  this  subject.  So,  all 
three,  silently,  we  obey  this  unspoken  rule, 
like  the  soldiers  who  came  to  his  rescue 
when  he  fell  on  the  hillside,  and  to  whom 
he  commanded : "  Return  to  the  firing-line ! " 


XLI 

The  big  ward  which  is  beyond  the  little 
hallway  into  which  Robert's  room  opens 
is  full  of  wounded  who  are  kept  isolated: 
all  those  who  can  go  no  farther,  those  whom 
they  don't  want  to  have  die  among  their 
comrades  in  some  cattle  train. 

So  near  the  battlefield  these  poor  hope- 
less case3  receive  no  visits.  They  must  con- 
tent themselves  with  dictating  a  few  letters, 
or  having  read  to  them  the  answers  when 
they  are  able  to  listen  to  them. 

I  am  so  wrung  with  pity  for  their  loneli- 
ness that  I  beg  Helen  not  to  come  through 
this  ward.  So,  to  reach  Robert's  room,  we 
go  around  the  tall  building,  we  keep  close 
to  the  walls  where  no  one  can  see  us,  as 
though  we  were  going  to  some  clandestine 
meeting.  But  these  poor  fellows  found 
out  that  the  lieutenant,  their  comrade,  had 
a  dear  visitor.  They  sent  me  word  by  Big 
Louis  that  they  longed  to  have  this  young 


194       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

girl  come  through  their  ward.  They  said: 
"We're  so  glad  that  some  one  can  have  a 
little  happiness." 

By  what  miracle,  O  God!  do  you  thus 
enrich  the  human  heart,  burying  the  ego- 
ism which  seemed  to  be  withering  up  the 
face  of  the  earth,  bringing  back  into  your 
light  the  seed  of  brotherly  love  ? 

I  feel  it,  with  an  emotion  that  is  over- 
whelming; the  young  girl  whom  these 
lonely  creatures  long  to  see  pass  before  their 
eyes  is  not  a  mother,  or  a  wife.  She  is  the 
betrothed  who  shall  have  no  wedding,  the 
dream  which  shall  remain  a  dream,  the 
symbol  of  what  might  have  been,  the  pure 
love  wherein  each  one  of  these  dying  men 
seeks  the  reflection  of  some  fleeting  mem- 
ory, dear  to  his  heart. 


XLII 

It  was  to-night  that  Helen  bade  him 
good-bye. 

Both  of  them,  until  this  last  agony,  have 
maintained  toward  each  other  their  gen- 
erous effort  at  control.  There  has  been  no 
mention  made  of  any  final  separation.  My 
child  —  so  brave  himself — had  made  a 
good  choice.  How  can  I  not  weep  over  the 
child  who  might  have  been  theirs ! 

So  we  talk  of  the  reunion  ...  his  return 
to  Paris. 

"As  soon  as  I  can  be  moved,''  he  says, 
"Helen  has  promised  that  she  will  send  a 
motor  for  me.  I  shall  be  carried  directly 
to  the  hospital  at  Neuilly.  She  will  be 
waiting  for  me  there." 

The  look  in  his  eyes  is  almost  ecstatic  as 
he  pronounces  these  words.  "She  will  be 
waiting  for  me." 

At  that  time  he  will  have  drunk  of  the 
waters  whose  murmurings  he  already  hears. 


196       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

He  will  have  quenched  there  his  thirst, 
appeased  his  sufferings.  She  will  come  to 
him,  more  ethereal  than  her  wedding  veil. 
She  will  have  in  her  hands  the  flowers  that 
never  fade.  And  they  shall  be  forever 
united  in  Glory. 


XLIII 

"To  get  away  .  .  ." 

This  was  the  fixed  idea  which  possessed 
him  when  his  soldiers  picked  him  up  on 
the  battlefield.  How  agonized  his  expression 
was  when  he  said  to  me  himself:  "I  want 
to  try  to  get  home!" 

Since  Helen  left,  he  has  been  haunted 
by  the  same  thought.  During  the  ever 
briefer  moments  when  he  is  under  the  in- 
fluence of  morphine,  "to  get  away"  means 
"to  recover  with  the  care  of  his  beloved 
fiancee." 

When  the  poison  is  no  longer  active,  he 
faces  the  future  again  deliberately.  Then 
"to  get  away"  means  "to  go  back  to 
Paris,  to  fall  asleep  on  Helen's  shoulder." 

As  his  confidant,  I  telegraph  to  the  Min- 
ister of  War,  I  pay  visits  to  the  civil  and 
military  authorities,  I  go  on  errands,  I  beg, 
I  entreat,  that,  when  the  time  comes,  I 
may  take  him  away  from  here,  not  as  my 


198       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

thinking,  feeling  son,  still  alive,  but  all 
there  is  left  of  him,  between  the  planks  of 
oak. 

The  Minister  sends  me  his  affectionate 
condolences,  but  until  the  end  of  the  war 
no  one  can  use  the  railroad  for  such  pur- 
poses. The  prefect  says  I  can  go  by  the 
road  when  the  lead  coffin  has  been  sealed, 
the  oak  cover  screwed  down.  "But  you 
and  I,"  he  adds,  "know  neither  the  day 
nor  the  hour.  So  we  must  place  the  body 
temporarily  in  a  tomb  here.  And  for  that 
you  must  ask  the  municipal  authorities." 

The  body! 

I  want  "the  body"! 

The  major  says  "Yes,"  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  He  advises  me  to  go  to  the  ceme- 
tery to  arrange  things  with  the  guardian 
of  the  tombs;  with  the  grave-digger! 

I  have  just  come  back  from  there.  I 
saw  the  place.  So,  when,  my  child,  you 
say  to  me:  "What  trouble  you  are  taking 
for  me! .  .  .  Have  you  succeeded?"  I  can 
answer  truthfully:  "You  will  be  able  to 
leave." 


XLIV 

I  HAD  helped  you,  my  boy,  to  make  the 
arrangements  for  your  wedding.  From  my 
own  belongings  I  had  selected  the  souvenirs 
most  directly  connected  with  my  fore- 
fathers. I  was  so  happy  to  think  that  I 
should  see  them  in  the  home  you  were  to 
found. 

You  will  not  be  able  to  take  them  with 
you  where  you  go,  and  to-day,  other 
thoughts  preoccupy  me. 

My  child,  you  shall  not  be  laid  away  un- 
shrouded  in  the  earth;  but  I  hope  for  bet- 
ter than  this  assurance. 

I  want  a  pillow  to  place  under  your  head. 

In  town,  every  day,  for  an  hour  or  two, 
the  military  authorities  allow  the  shop- 
keepers to  push  aside  the  shutters  from 
the  show  windows  which  used  to  be  well 
stocked.  Long  before  the  shop  door  opens, 
groups  of  soldiers  have  gathered.  They  are 
in  from  the  trenches.   They  hold  in  their 


200       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

hands  a  list  of  the  errands  they  have  been 
asked  to  do.  Every  one  wants  flannels  and 
woollens  to  comfort  him  in  the  rainy  dug- 
outs. In  your  letters,  my  boy,  you  spoke 
of  a  certain  "splendid  violet  muffler"  of 
which  you  were  proud. 

I  stand  in  line  with  these  valiant  young 
men,  covered  with  mud,  happy  to  be  still 
alive.  When,  at  last,  it  is  my  turn,  I  ask 
for  a  j)illow  cover. 

The  shopkeeper  lifts  her  arms  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Could  you,"  I  ask,  "sell  me  two  hand- 
kerchiefs? .  .  .  Not  too  coarse  and  of  the 
same  size.?" 

"Muslin? .  .  .  That  is  something  which 
the  poilus  don't  often  ask  for." 

So  I  find  what  I  want.  I  can  sew  the 
two  handkerchiefs  together.  Between  them 
I  can  slip  some  wool,  bought  at  a  drug  shop. 
Your  head,  in  this  way,  Robert,  won't  rest 
against  the  lead. 

I  must  have  a  flag  too.  I  want  to  wrap 
you  up  in  it.  You  have  died  for  the  flag. 

I  found  one  as  I  wanted.  A  friendly  hand 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       201 

offered  to  sew  the  pillow,  and  now  I  have 
these  two  treasures  beside  me  in  my  cellar 
room.  I  see  them  when  I  close  my  eyes  at 
night.  I  see  them  in  the  morning  when  I 
awake.  They  lie  there  on  the  shelf;  I  have 
no  cupboard.  I  am  always  conscious  of 
their  presence. 


XLV 

Every  evening,  when  the  head  nurse 
has  given  the  last  hypodermic  which  keeps 
our  patient  quiet  for  the  night,  I  creep  out 
of  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  cross  over  the  gar- 
den. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  flower  bed  I 
knock  at  the  door  of  a  Httle  cottage. 

I  go  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  colonel  who  fell, 
in  a  similar  bayonet  attack,  the  day  after 
Robert,  on  the  same  hill,  leading  his  regi- 
ment. 

His  eyes  very  bright,  his  mustache  grown 
long,  as  he  lies  there  on  his  pillow  he  looks 
like  such  a  leader  as  Neuville  would  have 
chosen  as  a  model. 

The  colonel  was  born  in  one  of  the 
French  islands  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  On 
the  various  battlefields  of  Africa  and  Asia 
he  has  played  a  role  inspiring  to  his  men. 
He  does  not  know,  and  no  one  knows,  if  he 
can  survive  the  wound  made  by  a  bullet 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF   HONOR       203 

in  his  chest,  which  entered  just  above  his 
Legion  of  Honor  Cross. 

The  colonel  married  late.  On  the  bed 
where  he  lies  he  thinks  of  his  young  wife, 
of  his  little  children,  of  the  son  who  sends 
his  love,  written  in  a  laborious  copy-book 
hand,  the  sight  of  which  brings  tears  to  this 
heroic  soldier's  eyes. 

I  like  to  sit  down  beside  the  little  table 
laden  with  cups  and  medicine  glasses.  I 
like  to  write  for  him  what  he  wants  to 
dictate  to  me,  for  his  young  wife  and  his 
children. 

Then  we  talk  together  about  my  boy. 

Even  before  I  came  the  colonel  asked 
every  day  for  news  of  his  young  neighbor. 
There  is  an  atmosphere  of  camaraderie. 
So  much  heroism  and  the  constant  pres- 
ence of  death  seem  to  do  away  with  all 
grades. 

The  colonel  relates  to  me  our  battle  as 
he  saw  it. 

When  he  knew  that,  with  no  previous 
cannonading,  he  was  asked  to  send  his  sol- 
diers on  for  a  bayonet  attack  upon  a  thor-. 


204       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

oughly  well-defended  position,  this  chief 
felt  as  chagrined  as  a  horseman  who  is 
forced  to  send  his  thoroughbred  over  some 
insurmountable  obstacle. 

He  says:  "I  went  to  find  the  major  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  I  entreated  him 
to  postpone  the  attack  for  several  hours,  to 
wait  at  least  for  the  protection  of  darkness 
until  the  next  night.  They  promised  to 
forward  my  request  to  the  chiefs  higher  up. 
But  our  action,  no  doubt,  was  only  part 
of  a  general  plan.  We  were  needed  just 
there.  At  noon  the  order  came  to  attack 
•  .  • 

There  is  a  moment's  silence.  Then  the 
colonel  concludes:  "They  were  right,  of 
course.  To-day  we  command  the  position." 

He  does  not  think,  he  does  not  say:  "At 
what  a  cost!'' 

Nor  does  my  child. 

Nor  do  I. 


XLVI 

To-day  Robert  received  a  visit  from  the 
sergeant  major  who  has  been  sent  by  the 
paymaster  to  bring  him  his  last  salary. 

On  the  threshold,  this  soldier  salutes. 
He  keeps  his  hand  lifted  rather  longer  than 
usual,  because,  instead  of  receiving  him 
standing,  the  lieutenant  is  there  stretched 
out  flat  on  his  bed. 

This  sergeant  major  is  a  true  official. 
He  represents  the  Administration,  a  power 
which  must  never  commit  an  injustice  nor 
show  any  feeling. 

He  says:  "Lieutenant,  I  wish  to  give 
you  what  is  due." 

My  patient  stretches  out  his  hand  to  his 
visitor.  On  his  lips  there  is  a  fleeting  smile: 
*'My  pay! .  .  .  Why,  of  course! . . .  I  had 
forgotten  it.  .  .  ." 

To  pay  is  a  duty.  The  sergeant  major 
is  the  mechanism  which  accomplishes  this 
duty. 


2o6       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

He  answers  gravely:  "Lieutenant,  there 
are  officers  and  soldiers  who  have  wives, 
children.  They  claim  part  of  the  pay. 
They  should  not  be  made  to  wait." 

There  was  a  silence.  Robert  has  lowered 
his  eyes,  and  the  sergeant  major  concludes : 
"I  am  to  give  you  your  pay  in  your  own 
hands." 

He  spreads  out  a  little  blue  paper,  a  few 
silver  pieces,  some  coppers,  on  the  bed. 
He  has  done  what  he  came  for.  But  he  is 
very  scrupulous.  He  seems  to  feel  the 
Government  owes  something  more  to  this 
dying  man. 

Always  correct,  but  almost  tenderly,  he 
says:  "Has  the  lieutenant  heard  the  news?" 

"What  news?" 

"The  lieutenant  has  been  mentioned  in 
the  despatches." 

"Of  our  brigade?" 

"Of  the  army." 

This  is  the  true  payment,  for  the  son, 
like  his  ancestors,  cherishes  honor. 

He  asks:  "Do  you  know  what  mention 
was  made?" 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       207 

"I  do  not,"  answers  the  sergeant  major. 

"I  hope  I  shall  hear,"  adds  my  boy. 

The  sergeant  major  leaves,  prolonging 
his  salute  even  further  than  when  he  came 
in. 

For  a  moment  Robert  weighs  in  his  hand 
the  little  sum  of  money  laid  on  the  bed. 

Then  he  says:  "The  price  of  blood  is  not 
heavy.  .  .  .  But  it  is  what  it  is.  .  .  .  You 
must  put  this  aside.  When  Marie-Rose 
marries,  you  must  buy  her  a  present  with 
it,  a  present  from  me.  .  .  .  Your  present,  I 
can  offer  you  to-day,  if  what  the  sergeant 
major  says  is  true." 


XLVII 

When  exhaustion  overcomes  him  and 
suddenly  he  lowers  his  eyes,  I  can  no  longer 
remain  seated.  I  have  to  get  up  to  lean 
over  him,  to  watch  him.  If,,  now  and  then, 
he  did  not  wrinkle  his  brow,  to  drive  away 
the  flies  that  torment  him,  I  might  almost 
think  he  will  never  wake. 

Gaze  at  him,  poor  man,  and  try  to  grow 
accustomed  to  this  thought:  he  will  look 
like  this  when  the  struggle  is  over ! 

In  the  arms  of  Death  Triumphant  I  see 
a  transfigured  Robert. 

It  is  he,  and  yet  it  is  still  more  you,  my 
son  Guy,  whom  I  see;  as  you  used  to  look 
when  I  walked  between  you,  happy  to 
hear  people  say  as  we  passed,  "They  seem 
to  be  three  brothers!"  —  as  you  looked  in 
the  peace  of  your  final  sleep. 

At  that  moment,  my  first-born  child, 
you  had  grown  so  like  me  in  appearance 
that  it  was  no  longer  you,  but  myself,  at 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       209 

the  age  of  twenty,  lying  there.  You  wanted 
to  leave  this  heritage  to  my  grief: 

"I  was  you,  even  more  than  you 
dreamed." 

Oh !  my  sons,  why,  in  dying,  do  you  wear 
the  look  of  my  youth .?  Is  it  because,  in  this 
vision,  you  wish  to  show  me  the  child  to 
which  your  lost  love  shall  never  give  birth.? 

This  is  the  lesson  I  learn:  We  three  are 
but  a  single  being,  multiplied  for  an  instant, 
and  drawn  close  again  to  return  to  God. 


XLVIII 

The  soldier  who  guards  the  hospital  gate 
stopped  me  just  now  on  my  way.  This 
humble  fellow  is  wrapped  up  in  his  little 
girl,  a  child  about  twelve  years  old.  Stand- 
ing by  his  side,  she  watches  placidly  the 
wounded  being  brought  in,  the  dead  being 
carried  out. 

For  her  they  are  merely  the  guests  com- 
ing or  going  whom  she  greets  in  passing, 
stopping  a  moment  some  game  to  smile  or 
to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  good  man  is  embarrassed  when  he 
sees  me.  I  feel  I  must  encourage  him. 

"Sir,"  he  says,  "it's  Boissec.  .  .  .  You 
know,  the  carpenter  from  town? ...  He 
gave  me  a  message  for  you.  ...  He  has 
finished  the  work.  ...  He  would  like  to 
deliver  it  as  soon  as  possible.  ...  It  seems 
you  agreed  to  this?'' 

"Yes,  I  did." 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       211 

"Then  ...  he  can  bring  it  up  to-mor- 
row morning?  .  .  ." 

And  the  poor  fellow  adds  in  a  low  tone: 
"Where  shall  I  have  them  put  it.?" 

Near  me,  of  course,  with  the  other  relics, 
the  flag,  the  pillow :  I  have  reached  the 
point  where  it  is  almost  a  comfort  to  be 
thus  sure  of  having  a  coflSn  for  my  son  be- 
fore he  is  dead.  Now  I  am  certain  that  his 
poor,  wretched  body  will  not  receive  di- 
rectly the  weight  of  the  earth  upon  it. 

In  my  misery  I  am  happier  than  thou- 
sands of  other  fathers,  who  will  see  before 
them  only  an  irregular  field,  and  who  will 
not  know  where  to  kneel,  if  they  want  to 
say  a  prayer. 


XLIX 

The  director  has  been  promising  me  for 
some  time  to  show  me  the  portraits  of  his 
two  little  children.  He  is  sorry  that  a  ray 
of  sunlight,  which  mars  the  photograph,  pre- 
vents my  seeing  how  pretty  his  young  wife  is. 

While  I  am  looking  at  these  charming 
pictures,  the  paymaster  brings  me  the 
mail.  I  recognize  on  one  of  the  envelopes 
my  brother-in-law  Eugene's  writing.  He 
is  surgeon  now  in  a  railroad  station  near 
the  front,  where  thousands  of  wounded  pass 
through  his  hands. 

I  tell  the  director  the  pretty  story  of  how 
this  young  doctor  happened  to  become  one 
of  our  family. 

Twenty-four  years  ago  (Robert  was 
about  three  years  old  then)  our  household 
was  stricken  with  croup.  My  two  chil- 
dren had  bad  cases.  We  did  not  yet  know, 
we,  the  mothers  and  fathers,  the  blessed 
remedy  with  which  to  combat  and  quell 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       213 

this  malady  at  its  start.  Minute  by  min- 
ute we  had  to  fight  suffocation. 

The  great  speciaHst  whom  I  had  sum- 
moned to  our  aid  said  to  me:  "Here  are 
the  name  and  address  of  one  of  my  assist- 
ants. I  hope  he  will  be  able  to  leave  his 
studies  to  come  and  stay  here  in  the  house. 
It  will  be  the  only  chance  of  saving  your 
children." 

I  can  never  forget  my  search  through  the 
Latin  Quarter,  from  one  street  to  another. 
Finally  I  reached  a  student  lodging-house, 
where,  in  the  days  when  I  was  preparing 
for  my  examinations  at  the  Sorbonne,  I 
myself  had  stayed. 

In  the  very  room  where  I  had  burned  the 
midnight  oil  chance  would  have  it  that  I 
should  find  this  young  man  to  whom  I 
looked  to  save  us. 

He  was  polite,  speaking  only  common 
sense,  no  doubt:  "I  am  preparing  for  the 
competition  to  become  interne,"  he  said. 
"I  can't  throw  up  my  work  like  this." 

"Eight  years  ago,"  I  answered  him,  "I 
was  seated  behind  this  very  table.  ...    I 


214       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

would  have  said  exactly  what  you  are 
saying;  I  didn't  know  then  what  I  have 
learned  since  in  becoming  a  father.  You, 
too,  some  day,  will  know  what  this  paternal 
affection  is.  Then  you  will  be  sorry  that 
you  thrust  aside  my  anguish.  Moreover, 
it  is  not  only  because  you  love  Science  that 
you  have  chosen  the  profession  of  doctor? 
You  want  to  relieve  suffering  humanity.? 
.  .  .  Come  now  to  the  assistance  of  a  father 
who  can't  see  his  sons  die." 

He  listened  to  me.  He  came  with  me. 
It  was  a  terrible  epidemic  in  the  house- 
hold. One  after  the  other  the  two  children, 
their  mother,  one  of  my  brothers,  one  of 
my  sisters,  were  infected  with  the  disease, 
which  we  fought  for  two  months. 

We  were  the  victors,  and,  as  a  recom- 
pense for  such  hours  of  mortal  misery,  we 
saw  the  dawning  of  a  young  love. 

My  sister  Marie-Louise  was  then  in  her 
twentieth  year,  and  very  charming.  As 
her  hands  smoothed  the  pillows  of  our 
poor  sufferers,  they  had  encountered  the 
doctor's   hands,   joined  with   them.     So, 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF   HONOR       215 

after  the  period  of  convalescence,  we  cele- 
brated a  love  marriage. 

The  happiness  of  the  young  couple 
seemed  to  radiate  farther  than  the  old  pro- 
vincial church  and  the  circle  of  friends  who 
had  accompanied  them  thither.  It  reached 
as  far  as  those  who  long  to  hear  a  happy 
ending  to  a  tragic  story. 

"To-day,"  I  say  to  the  director,  "my 
brother-in-law  Eugene's  only  son,  his 
*  Charles,'  is  fighting.  *Our  Charles'  is  a 
lieutenant,  twenty-two  years  old.  He  has 
passed  his  law  examinations  brilliantly, 
graduated  from  the  School  of  Political 
Science.  What  a  shock  it  must  have  been 
to  Eugene  when  he  learned  that  the  last 
of  the  children  whose  lives  he  saved  years 
ago  is  now  dying  in  my  arms,  and  that  even 
his  experience  could  do  nothing  for  us!" 

I  open  the  envelope  which  the  paymaster 
handed  me. 

Ah,  God ! .  .  .  You  can  spare  no  one ! .  .  . 
Charles  has  been  killed,^  shot  through  the 

^  Lieutenant  Charles  Didier,  killed  in  action,  Sep- 
tember 22,  1 91 4. 


2i6       ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR 

heart  a  few  miles  from  the  spot  where  his 
cousin  fell,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Moselle. 
He  had  sprung  out  of  the  trenches  to  lead 
on  his  men. 

This  is  the  end.  The  end!  In  both 
branches  of  the  family!  My  father  has  lost 
his  last  grandson. 

For  a  moment  I  cannot  take  it  in  or  be- 
lieve it.  It  is  too  much  —  too  much! 


The  letter  from  Charles's  father  has 
lain  all  day  hi  my  coat  pocket.  It  seemed 
to  burn  my  breast  when  Robert  asked  me 
as  usual  if  there  were  no  news  from  his 
friends  at  the  front,  from  his  cousin,  who 
was  like  a  brother,  and  who,  on  his  wed- 
ding day,  was  to  have  been  his  best  man. 

To  decipher  these  poor  lines  I  waited 
until  night,  until  I  was  alone  in  my  cellar 
room. 

So,  my  poor  Eugene,  it  was  for  this  that 
twenty-four  years  ago  I  came  to  hunt  you 
out  before  your  work-table  and  bring  you 
into  my  house! 

I  said  to  you :  *' Later  you  will  understand 
how  profound  this  love  is  for  one's  own 


son." 


You  listened  to  me.  You  came  with  me. 
Toward  what  fate? 
^  To-day  I  read  your  letter  within  a  few 


2i8       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

feet  of  the  very  coffin  in  which  I  am  wait- 
ing to  lay  my  last  son,  and  you,  you  have 
been  on  to  the  battlefield  to  disinter  your 
boy. 

For  two  long  days  and  two  long  nights 
you  were  searching  for  him  in  the  grass,  for 
this  beloved  child,  searching  under  the 
rain  of  bullets.  You  were  sent  back  and 
forth  from  those  who  did  not  know  where 
to  take  you,  to  those  whose  indifference 
failed  to  grasp  your  determination.  Yoii 
wore  your  eyes  out  making  out  the  names 
already  growing  dim  on  the  wooden  crosses. 
You  felt  your  heart  sink  before  these  name- 
less tombs.  And  when  at  last  you  knew 
in  which  direction  to  guide  your  steps,  you 
did  as  I,  you  made  friends  of  those  who 
could  help  you  realize  your  hope.  The  old 
carpenter  who  agreed  to  make  you  a  coffin 
in  the  night  hours;  the  cartman  who  har- 
nessed his  horse  in  the  darkness ;  the  village 
priest  who  gave  you  a  sheet;  the  sergeant 
who  shouldered  his  gun  to  show  you  the 
way;  the  soldiers  your  son  had  commanded, 
and  who  set  out  with  you  before  dawn  to 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       219 

find  the  hillside,  and  the  spot  where  the 
soil  was  overturned. 

Each  word  in  your  letter,  each  one  of 
your  thoughts,  poor  father,  finds  an  echo  in 
my  heart.  You  write: 

"  I  walked  on,  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  woods 
of  Selouze.  We  reached  a  clump  of  shrubs, 
two  hundred  metres  farther  on  another 
cluster  of  bushes,  quite  near  the  place 
where  my  child  had  been  shot  down.  The 
sergeant  showed  the  way  with  a  steady 
step.  He  led  me  to  the  trench  which  Charles 
had  occupied  the  previous  day.  A  little 
heap  of  earth,  a  little  cross  made  of  two 
branches.  It  was  there.  Charles  and  I  were 
together  again. 

"I  noticed  that  the  men  were  wait- 
ing for  an  order  from  me.  I  said:  'Go 
ahead!* 

"With  their  shovels  they  began  throw- 
ing up  the  earth.  Gently,  respectfully,  the 
soldiers  dug  all  about  the  grave.  .  .  .  First 
a  red  spot  appeared. 

"'Stop!' I  cried. 

"I  brushed  away  the  dirt  with  my  hands. 


220       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONORS 

Little  by  little  I  uncovered  the  legs  in  their 
new  red  trousers.  I  lifted  them  up.  I  freed 
them.  The  cloak  had  been  thrown  over 
the  head  and  shoulders. 

"The  body  was  entirely  outlined  now. 
It  was  covered  with  blood;  the  earth,  too, 
had  been  soaked  with  it.  It  had  flowed  from 
the  bullet  hole  in  the  chest. 

"I  could  not  yet  distinguish  the  face, 
but  I  could  see  his  poor  feet  with  their 
heavy  boots,  hobnailed,  clumsy,  and  his 
hands  with  their  slender  fingers,  thin, 
wrinkled,  already  withered. 

"We  dragged  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
grave.  I  lifted  up  the  cloak.  Poor  little 
Charles! 

"It  was  his  pale,  fine  face,  his  straight 
nose,  his  full  mouth.  Death  had  respected 
his  features.  But  what  an  unknown  expres- 
sion he  wore!  His  head  was  thrown  back 
as  though  defiantly  in  a  moment  of  su- 
preme effort.  His  face  had  a  look  of  savage 
energy.  He  had  aged  twenty  years  in  the 
moment  of  combat. 

"I  was  overwhelmed.   I  kissed  him  for 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       221 

his  poor  mother,  for  his  sister,  for  myself. 
My  tears  fell  upon  his  forehead. 

** Meanwhile  the  sun  had  risen;  the  mist 
had  turned  into  a  fine  rain;  the  shells  had 
begun  to  fall  again.  I  had  to  leave  if  I  did 
not  want  to  add  new  grief  to  this  grief. 
The  soldiers  placed  the  body  on  a  litter  and 
we  started  on  our  way. 

"I  walked  by  his  side,  holding  his  hand 
in  mine,  the  hand  of  my  boy,  so  cold  now. 
We  were  close  together  again  as  we  used 
to  be  in  the  days  when  we  dreamed  about 
the  future." 

The  letter  is  longer  still,  but  I  shall  read 
no  more  to-night. 

My  little  Charles,  I  shall  not  tell  Robert 
that  you  have  fallen.  He  was  counting 
upon  you  to  console  me.  The  thought  that 
you,  too,  have  left  us  would  grieve  him  too 
sorely,  however  glorious  your  end. 

But  to-morrow  how  happy  he  is  going 
to  be  to  find  you  on  the  other  side,  be- 
tween Guy  and  Jean !  In  the  joy  of  your 
reunion,  my  dear  children,  don't  forget 


222]      ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

those  who  have  loved  you  so  deeply  here- 
below,   and  who  must  finish  their  days 
without  you. 

Charles,  Robert,  you  must  forgive  me 
if  just  now  I  was  rebellious.  Have  you  not 
fallen,  dear  sons,  to  teach  us  fathers  that 
sacrifice  is  not  measured  by  reason? 


LI 


Every  evening,  toward  six  o'clock,  the 
cathedral,  deserted  and  silent  during  the 
day,  becomes  peopled  with  moving  shad- 
ows ;  soldiers  who  pass,  valiant  fellows  sent 
back  from  the  trenches  for  a  short  rest. 

A  few  candles  placed  in  the  side  chapels, 
on  an  altar,  break  the  depth  of  gloom.  A 
little  light  under  a  lamp-shade  illumines  a 
hymnal.  A  few  rays  reach  as  far  as  the 
vaulted  roof:  they  touch  up  the  brass  of  a 
chandelier,  the  gold  of  a  faded  banner,  the 
fringe  of  a  flag.  At  the  foot  of  the  pillars 
it  is  as  dark  as  the  forest  in  night-time. 

Among  these  trees  of  stone,  under  the 
leaves  of  the  capitals,  a  group  of  people 
stand,  silent,  immovable.  Is  it  in  my 
imagination  that  these  cloaks  exist,  stiff 
with  mud,  their  long  folds  hanging  straight  ? 
Is  it  the  dim  light  in  which  these  shaggy 
heads  appear?   Is  it  the  intensity  of  these 


224      ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR 

thoughtful  faces?  In  the  semi-darkness 
these  men  seem  less  to  be  living  than  to 
be  some  statues  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  figures 
on  a  church  door,  weary  with  standing  so 
long  erect  in  all  weathers,  outside  the 
church,  and  who  have  come  to  seek  shelter 
in  the  cathedral  and  to  bear  witness  to 
their  own  martyrdom,  their  resignation. 

It  is  a  motley  crowd:  people  who  have 
faith,  those  who  have  none,  men  whose 
hands  have  been  always  joined  in  prayer, 
strong-minded  men  who  have  mocked  at 
the  idea  of  another  life.  They  are  all  to- 
gether here  now,  those  who  just  have  es- 
caped death,  those  who  are  going  back  to 
face  death. 

Absorbed  in  the  same  deep  thought, 
they  listen  to  the  military  chaplain,  who, 
at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  recites  the  evening 
prayer  first,  followed  by  the  prayer  for  the 
dead.  A  song  sounds  forth,  accompanied 
by  a  few  chords  on  the  harmonium.  The 
voices  are  full  and  steady.  From  the  mute 
crowd  there  goes  up  suddenly  the  ancient 
cry  of  suffering  humanity: 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       225 

"Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried  unto  thee, 

O  Lord. 
"  Lord,  Lord,  hear  my  voice  .  .  ." 

I  wait  until  the  end  of  the  service  to 
speak  to  the  priest  officiating.  He  had  been 
at  the  hospital  during  the  day,  passing 
souls  in  review.  He  seems,  this  military 
priest,  less  a  priest  clad  in  his  frock  than 
a  Saint  George,  with  spurs  and  armor. 

He  said  to  me:  "Your  son  is  ready." 

He  speaks  as  a  military  instructor  might 
speak  of  his  recruits:  "They  are  prepared." 

His  faith  radiates  like  a  halo.  He  has 
long  since  passed  the  moment  when  one 
makes  compromises  with  the  hesitating, 
when  one  encourages  vain  regrets.  He  is 
an  archangel,  with  rigid  features,  standing 
on  the  threshold  of  Paradise. 

He  thrusts  open  the  door  with  his  lance. 
He  orders  you  to  enter. 


LII 

After  supper  the  head  surgeon  says  to 
me:  "Let  us  go  to  see  the  lieutenant." 

It  was  in  response  to  his  orders  that  I 
have  given  up  the  pleasure  of  visiting  my 
child  every  evening,  to  kiss  his  damp  brow 
before  entering  upon  the  night.  They  are 
afraid  I  may  arouse  him  from  the  torpor 
which,  for  a  few  hours,  plunges  him  into 
forgetfulness.  So  this  sudden  invitation 
startles  me.  I  wonder,  trembling.  I  ask 
myself:  "Is  he  worse.?" 

The  head  surgeon  lights  a  lantern.  He 
leads  the  way  across  the  hospital  garden. 
In  the  middle  of  the  path  he  stops:  "It 
will  not  be  to-morrow.  But  I  advise  you 
to  keep  within  call." 

We  pass  through  the  ward  where  all  is 
in  darkness.  The  head  surgeon  stops  here 
and  there,  letting  the  light  from  his  lan- 
tern fall  upon  some  pillow  where  it  shows 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       227 

a  tortured  face,  the  eyes  closed.  He  reads 
the  fever  chart  nailed  on  the  wall.  He 
shakes  his  head  and  we  pass  on. 

Now  we  are  in  the  hallway  into  which 
the  officers'  rooms  open.  In  the  silence  a 
voice,  unknown  to  me,  calls  out  aloud,  in 
a  monologue  of  broken,  incoherent  words. 

The  head  surgeon  listens  and  says:  "It 
is  the  lieutenant  talking  yonder  ...  I 
shall  leave  you  with  him  a  moment.  Don't 
stay  longer." 

In  the  dim  glow  of  a  night  light  I  per- 
ceive my  child. 

His  head  is  thrown  back  on  his  pillow. 
His  throat  —  so  emaciated  now  —  seems 
so  long,  so  long.  The  dampness  on  his 
brow  curls  his  hair  in  light  tendrils. 

He  opens  his  eyes.  He  looks  at  me.  He 
does  not  see  me. 

"Robert,  my  child..." 

"Mamma  .  .  ." 

Where  is  he  in  his  wandering  dream  ?  In 
the  room  where,  in  their  childhood,  his 
mother  came  to  cover  him  and  his  brother 
in  their  beds,  commending   them  in  her 


228       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

simple  Italian  faith  to  the  angels  whom 
she  believed  to  be  hovering  over  them  ? 

Fearing,  as  he  does,  to  give  way  to  some 
emotion  so  deep  that  he  could  not  regain 
possession  of  himself,  not  once  has  this 
son  of  ours,  since  I  have  been  nursing  him, 
pronounced  before  me  his  mother's  name. 

Impulsively  I  say:  "Robert,  dear  .  .  . 
you  never  speak  to  me  of  your  mother  .  .  ." 

He  has  gone  too  far  from  me.  He  does 
not  see  me,  he  does  not  hear  me,  he  does 
not  answer.  On  his  lips  I  see  the  faintest 
smile.  He  says:  "She  comes  to  me  in  the 
night!" 


LIII 

Does  he  remember  my  visit  to  him? 

Does  he  want  to  answer  my  appeal  and 
leave  with  me  some  last  message  for  those 
nearest  his  heart  ? 

This  morning  he  says  to  me,  nervously, 
his  teeth  almost  closed:  "There  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  beg  you  to  do  about  my 
friend  Jacques.  You  know  how  fond  I  am 
of  him! .  .  .  We  entered  the  School  of 
Chemistry  together;  we  were  graduated 
side  by  side.  Ever  since  I  have  been  work- 
ing at  the  factory,  not  a  day  has  passed 
that  he  has  not  come  in  the  evening  to 
smoke  a  cigarette  with  me  on  the  couch,  on 
Rue  de  Rivoli.  In  the  summer-time,  when 
I  had  a  few  days'  vacation,  I  liked  to  spend 
them  with  him  and  his  mother  in  their 
villa  at  the  seaside.  When  he  used  to  come 
to  lunch  with  us,  in  our  house,  near  the 
forest,  I  was  so  happy.  He  knew  all  my 
hopes,  my  plans.    I  knew  his.  ...    It  is 


230       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

about  one  of  these  mutual  secrets  that  I 
want  to  say  a  word." 

In  the  pictures  which  daily  I  like  to 
evoke  before  my  poor  child,  two  young 
couples  appear  and  reappear,  Helen  and 
himself,  his  friend  Jacques  and  Helen's 
sister.  These  two  are  slightly  more  in  the 
background  —  not  quite  distinct.  But  the 
desire  he  has  to  see  these  two  together  is 
not  the  only  reason  why  they  lean  one 
toward  the  other. 

It  was  to  Marie-Therese  that  Robert 
first  spoke  of  his  love  for  Helen;  it  was  she 
whom  he  took  as  confidante  to  serve  his 
interests. 

I  have  read  the  letters  in  which  this 
charming  child  tried  to  comfort  him  at  a 
moment  when  he  was  not  yet  certain  of 
his  happiness. 

And  Jacques,  of  course,  his  friend,  played 
a  part  in  the  naive  conspiracy.  When  he 
danced  with  Helen  he  had  the  mission  of 
telling  her  how  much  he  admired  his  friend. 

Such  games  of  love  can't  be  played  with 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       231 

impunity  when  one  is  twenty.  So  the 
spark  was  soon  fanned  to  a  flame. 

I  say  now,  without  surprise:  "Your 
friend  Jacques  is  attached  to  Marie-The- 
rese?" 

"He  loves  her..." 

"And  she...?" 

"  She  loves  him  too.  I  am  sure  of  it,  only 
she  won't  admit  it  yet.  Jacques  needs  me 
to  plead  his  cause  as  I  needed  him  to  plead 
mine  with  Helen.  I  hate  to  fail  my  best 
friend  at  such  a  critical  moment.  This  is 
why  I  have  turned  to  you  .  .  ." 

He  smiles.  He  sees  the  two  young  cou- 
ples who  might  have  traversed  life  together, 
as  they  danced  together  the  winter  before. 
Before  his  fleeting  fancy  has  changed  from 
joy  to  melancholy,  he  begs  me:  "You  will 
speak  well  of  Jacques  to  Helen's  mother, 
won't  you  ? .  .  .  Say  everything  I  would 
have  said  had  I  been  able,  so  that  Marie- 
Therese  and  he  can  marry  and  so  that  two 
of  us  at  least  may  be  happy."  ^ 

^  Married,  January  13,  1915. 


LIV 

"And  now  I  must  say  a  word  about 
Marie-Rose." 

Robert  has  loved  this  little  sister,  ten 
years  younger  than  he,  with  the  greatest 
tenderness.  When  she  was  at  the  age  of 
mud  pies  and  wooden  shovels,  he  used  to 
leave  his  favorite  books  to  go  down  into 
the  garden  and  play  with  her.  He  would 
take  her  into  the  stable,  show  her  how  to 
hold  her  hand  out  quite  flat  when  she  gave 
a  bit  of  carrot  to  my  horse,  or  a  pinch  of 
tobacco  to  the  gazelle,  which  he  had  called, 
and  of  which  she  was  afraid. 

When  Guy's  death  left  him  alone  with 
this  sister,  the  bonds  of  affection  grew 
stronger  between  them.  He  seemed  to  say 
to  her:  "You  have  lost  one  of  your  cava- 
liers, but  I  am  still  here.  ...  I  will  pro- 
tect you." 

When,  after  that,  Marie-Rose  lost  her 
mother,    this    brotherly    attachment    be- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       233 

came  almost  fierce.  And  so  It  went  on 
until  the  moment  when  the  image  of  an- 
other young  girl  came  to  fill  a  greater  place 
in  his  heart  than  the  first  affection  which 
for  eighteen  years  had  absorbed  him. 

To-day  it  seems  as  though  a  veil  were 
being  lifted.  For  the  first  time  he  seems 
to  realize  that  a  sister,  who  had  so  long 
been  cherished,  may  have  suffered  when 
she  saw  that  she  no  longer  held  the  first 
place  in  her  brother's  thoughts,  and  that 
she  had  been  obliged  to  give  way  before 
another  queen. 

"Dear  Rosette,"  he  says.  "How  nice 
she  was  about  my  engagement !  She  seemed 
happy  at  seeing  me  happy!  And  how  un- 
selfish of  her  to  let  Helen  come  to  me,  since 
the  regulations  of  the  fortress  are  so  severe 
that  I  could  not  have  the  joy  of  seeing  them 
both." 

He  talks  on  and  on,  quickly,  and  though 
his  mind  works  clearly  his  words  succeed 
each  other  rapidly,  confusedly,  on  his  lips. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  says,  "when  I  saw 
Rosette  for  the  last  time!  .  .  .    You  re- 


234       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

member  she  was  staying  with  my  uncle 
and  aunt  at  Mont  Fortin  ?  Before  going  to 
spend  my  vacation  with  Helen  I  had  gone 
to  say  a  word  of  greeting  to  the  others. 
The  morning  I  left  she  came  with  me  on 
to  the  terrace  which  overlooks  the  whole 
horizon,  the  town,  the  river,  the  church 
spires,  the  meadows.  It  was  a  sunny  July 
day.  The  flower  beds  in  the  gardens  were 
wonderfully  sweet.  We  looked  out  to- 
gether over  the  distant  view  and  we  kissed 
each  other  fondly.  I  am  so  happy  to  have 
said  good-bye  to  Rosette  in  that  beautiful 
light.  .  .  .  She  will  always  think  of  me  now 
as  blessed." 


LV 


All  day  he  has  been  tortured.  He  thinks 
his  engagement  has  been  broken. 

"On  account  of  the  state  I  am  in,  you 
understand  ?  '^  he  says. 

I  hold  his  two  hands  in  mine  to  help  him 
in  fighting  the  phantoms  that  are  closing 
in  around  him. 

"How  Helen  would  suffer,"  I  say,  "if 
she  knew  that  you  had  lost  confidence  in 
her." 

"Of  course  ...  of  course.  ...  It  is  not 
her  fault." 

Staring  vacantly  into  the  air  he  seems  to 
see  the  cause  of  this  new  misery;  but  I  can- 
not drive  the  look  of  anguish  from  his  brow. 

He  no  longer  believes  now  that  he  has 
been  mentioned  in  despatches. 

"You  haven't  received  any  notifica- 
tion," he  asks.  "Nothing  official! .  .  . 
Neither  have  I.  .  .  .  If  the  sergeant  major 
was  just  saying  all  that  to  please  me  .  .  ." 


236      ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"My  poor  child,"  I  answer,  ''don't 
worry.  It  is  true,  of  course.  .  .  .  This  is 
the  least  honor  that  could  be  given  one  who 
has  done  what  you  have  done." 

"Then  let  them  make  haste." 

His  suffering  is  terrible,  worse  than  any 
agony  caused  by  his  wound,  worse  than 
the  horror  of  dying. 

Toward  evening  he  says  to  me:  "For- 
give me! .  .  .  There  are  moments  in  the 
day  when  the  devil  amuses  himself  by  show- 
ing me  his  magic  lantern  .  .  ." 

Then  suddenly  he  seems  relieved;  he 
seems  natural  again.  My  love  seems  to 
touch  him,  to  dispel  the  shadows  once 
more. 

Inconsolable,  he  pronounces  these  words, 
which  shall  be  my  consolation:  "How  kind 
you  are  to  me  .  .  ." 


LVI 

He  and  I  keep  a  close  watch  for  the 
brief  little  moments  when  he  can  master 
his  remaining  strength.  I  stand  then  at  the 
foot  of  his  bed  and  he  dictates  a  letter  to 
Helen.  We  stop  after  each  sentence,  often 
after  each  word,  and  for  a  long  time.  He 
does  n't  want  to  be  helped,  he  knows  what 
he  wishes  to  say. 

When  we  have  come  to  the  bottom  of  the 
page  I  draw  near  to  him  and  show  him  the 
paper.  He  tries  to  read  what  is  written  on 
it,  and  he  signs  it,  with  three  letters,  which 
spell  the  nickname  she  used  to  give  him. 

Every  day  it  grows  harder  for  him  to 
trace  these  three  letters,  for  his  arm  can  no 
longer  control  his  fingers.  When  he  has 
succeeded,  he  kisses  the  place  and  he 
watches  me  seal  the  message  while  the 
dampness  moistens  his  brow. 

To-day  he  said  to  me:  "Put  the  exact 
date." 


238       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  \ 

•"^  And  we  waited  almost  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  he  with  a  vacant  stare,  I  with  my 
hand  ready  to  take  down  what  he  might 
have  to  say. 

At  last  he  dictated: 

"My  dear  wife  ..." 

It  is  the  farewell  letter.  It  is  not  long. 
He  wants  to  repeat  one  last  time : 

"Forever  and  forever.'' 

My  hands  tremble  almost  as  violently 
as  his  when  I  show  him  this  letter  to  sign. 
He  tries  once,  twice,  ten  times.  It  is  too 
much  for  him.  What  he  scrawls  at  the  foot 
of  the  page  is  meaningless. 

He  looks  at  me  to  see  what  my  impres- 
sion is;  then,  more  deliberately  than  usual, 
he  presses  his  burning  lips  to  the  signature. 

I  had  brought  him  the  last  autumn 
flowers  gathered  in  the  hospital  garden.  He 
kisses  them  too.  He  wants  me  to  slip  one 
into  the  envelope;  when  this  is  done  he 
says:  "How  I  hope  this  letter  will  not  be 
lost.'' 

He  watches  me  place  it  in  my  wallet,      i 
,His  thought  follows  it  on  to  its  journey's 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       239 

end;  he  sees  it  in  Helen's  hands.  He  knows 
that  her  lips  will  touch  the  spot  he  has 
touched  with  his  dying  lips.  He  lowers 
his  eyes  as  receiving  this  farewell  kiss. 

I  wait. 

His  eyes  are  open  again.  They  have  in 
them  a  look  of  peace. 

He  says  resolutely:  "And  now,  don't 
speak  to  me  of  Her  again." 


LVII 

Yesterday  he  bade  adieu  to  the  dream 
of  his  youth,  but  in  the  calm  with  which 
he  waits  for  death,  he  still  keeps  a  place 
for  the  affection  of  bygone  days. 

He  asks  me:  "My  mother  taught  me 
how  to  read  in  the  'Cdntes  de  Perrault.' 
Could  you  get  them  here,  do  you  think?" 

The  caprices  of  the  dying  have  to  be 
obeyed.  But  what  can  I  do!  I  cannot  leave 
him  now  long  enough  to  go  down  to  the 
town.  And  by  what  chance  could  I  find 
here,  in  this  house  of  suffering,  where  we 
live,  these  fairy-stories? 

The  janitor's  daughter  happens  to  have 
them ;  they  were  given  to  her  as  a  prize  at 
school,  an  edition  adapted  for  children, 
with  certain  pages  left  out.  It  seems  like  a 
miracle,  just  the  same.  He  can  scarcely 
believe  it  is  true  when  he  sees  me  sitting 
beside  his  bed  with  the  book  in  my  hands. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF   HONOR       241 

"Dear  son,"  I  ask,  "which  one  of  these 
stories  do  you  want  me  to  read  first?" 

He  remembers  his  emotion,  as  a  Httle 
child,  when  he  heard  the  adventures  of 
Blue  Beard  and  Little  Red  Riding  Hood. 
He  does  n't  want  to  hear  about  wicked 
people.  He  answers  me  in  a  way  that 
overwhelms  me:  "Read  me  only  the  stories 
that  have  a  happy  ending." 

So  we  shall  invoke  the  dream  of  the  Love 
that  nothing  discourages,  neither  maledic- 
tions, nor  curses,  nor  the  thickets  of  an 
impassable  forest:  "The  Sleeping  Beauty." 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  prin- 
cess ..." 

I  read  on  and  on  .  .  . 

"You're  not  getting  tired,  my  child?" 

"No!  no!  Goon." 

The  time  passes.  I  stop  a  moment.  We 
can  hear  the  ticking  of  my  watch.  No  one 
is  stirring  on  the  path  under  our  windows. 
Everything  about  us  seems  to  have  de- 
cided to  contribute  to  this  silence,  this 
reverie. 

So  I  read  on  and  on. 


242       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

He  does  not  seek  the  meaning  of  the 
words.  He  enjoys  them  as  one  would 
music.  Above  my  voice  he  hears  another 
voice  calHng  him. 

"It  was  during  the  winter  we  spent  at 
Bordighera,  after  the  croup.  Mamma  used 
to  read  aloud  to  us  in  the  evenings.  She 
had  hung  'toiles  de  Genes'  all  around  the 
room.  They  represented  palms,  flowers, 
trees,  palaces,  ships :  things  as  wonderful  as 
in  any  fairy-story!" 

I  read  on  and  on.  I  read  until  the  page 
of  glory  which  crowns  all  these  dreams  with 
the  supreme  happiness  accorded  to  lovers 
here  below: 

"They  lived  to  be  very  old,  and  had  a 
great  many  children." 


LVIII 

Big  Louis,  who  comes  to  call  me  in  the 
morning,  is  the  bearer  of  bad  news. 

"Sir,"  he  says,  "the  lieutenant  is  bad! 
He  has  been  talking  all  night  and  we  can't 
quiet  him/' 

I  am  out  of  bed  with  a  bound. 

Yes,  the  lieutenant  is  bad,  indeed,  as 
bad  as  possible!  Last  night  was  our  last 
moment  of  intimacy,  when  our  souls  were 
still  in  touch.  How  sweet  it  was! 

The  lieutenant  has  the  tense  expression 
of  one  who  is  struggling  hand  to  hand  with 
a  foe  against  whom  he  must  defend  him- 
self. Death  has  deceived  herself  if  she 
thinks  she  can  fell  him  without  his  resisting. 

His  soul,  yesterday  still  so  conscious,  has 
made  the  sacrifice,  but  his  youth  still  fights 
for  life. 

I  can  do  nothing  but  offer  him  a  drink  now 
and  then,  or  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  face, 
and  watch  this  struggle  as  it  progresses. 


244       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

The  head  surgeon  came  at  ten  o'clock. 
He  looked  at  the  lieutenant  a  moment.  He 
clasped  my  hand  in  his,  he  turned  to  the 
nurse  and  said:  "Don't  leave  him  now." 

At  all  costs  he  must  get  away  from  his 
bed  of  torture.  There  are  moments  when 
my  voice  calms  him.  There  are  others  when 
he  falls  back  on  his  pillows  and  breathes 
as  loudly  as  a  frightened  horse.  He  looks 
at  the  ceiling,  at  his  bed,  at  the  closed  door, 
at  the  barred  windows.  He  does  n't  under- 
stand where  he  is,  or  why  he  is  here.  His 
lips  move,  and  when  I  offer  him  something 
to  drink  he  pushes  it  away. 

"None  of  that  poison/'  he  says. 

The  fresh  springs  where  he  has  dreamed 
of  quenching  his  thirst  have  become  roar- 
ing streams.  They  flow  about  the  walls, 
they  beat  against  the  bed,  they  fill  his  ears 
with  their  noise,  they  roar  in  his  brain. 

I  had  hoped  that  he  might  fall  asleep 
without  this  nightmare,  and  that  he  would 
not  strike  his  brow  thus  against  the  portal 
of  death. 


LIX 

Noon, 

He  has  been  talking  for  two  hours,  but 
it  is  no  longer  to  us  that  he  addresses  these 
hasty  confidences  which  he  whispers  in  a 
low  tone. 

I  lean  over  him  trying  to  understand. 
In  vain.  Behind  his  closed  teeth  there  is 
a  dull  sound  as  of  pebbles  being  rolled  back 
and  forth  when  the  waves  rise  and  fall. 

Outside  it  is  the  splendid  noonday  of 
October.  A  radiant  light  falls  from  the 
blue  sky  above ;  it  gives  an  intensity  to  all 
it  touches,  to  the  perfume  of  the  rare  au- 
tumn flowers.  Life  is  sweet  between  heaven 
and  earth. 

Oh!  how  cruel  it  seems  to  me,  my  son, 
the  outward  beauty  of  everything  which 
persists,  as  I  watch  you,  going  alone,  at 
midday,  into  the  shadows. 


LX 


Three  o'clock. 

He  is  still  lucid.  He  lifts  his  haggard 
face  from  the  pillow;  he  stares  at  me. 

He  still  has  one  question  to  ask  me. 

Almost  violently  he  says:  "Come,  come! 
She  is  bigger  now,  is  she  not?" 

"Who  is  bigger,  dearest?" 

He  looks  at  me  with  terrible  intensity, 
as  though  all  the  peace  of  his  life  hereafter 
depended  on  what  I  am  about  to  answer 
him. 

He  sees  that  I  am  unable  to  grasp  what 
he  means.  So  he  makes  a  supreme  effort. 
He  pronounces  distinctly  the  word: 

''Francer 

So  it  is,  my  son.  You  cannot  leave  us 
without  speaking  that  name:  "France." 
It  is  for  her  I  brought  you  up.  To  heal  the 
wound  inflicted  upon  her,  as  your  own 
wound  was  inflicted  on  you,  so  that  the 
little  children,  who  will  attend  the  schools 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       247 

tomorrow  may  look  upon  her  in  her  en- 
tirety, this  France  which  you  and  I  have 
known  dismembered  in  the  darkness.  So 
that  they  may  say  with  a  smile:  "Our  older 
brothers  have  replaced  the  crape  with  a 
wreath  of  laurels." 

This  is  what  you  are  dying  for,  my  son. 
And  you  want  to  be  sure,  before  leaving, 
that  you  have  not  given  yourself  for  noth- 
ing. 

So  be  it.  And  since  you  have  no  time 
to  wait,  I  shall  advance  the  hour  for  you. 
I  tell  you  the  truth  as  you  have  made  it 
true  for  us  —  you,  who  are  nearing  the 
Truth  of  God. 

Yes!  my  Robert.  You  and  your  com- 
panions have  given  us  a  bigger  France. 
The  shadow  that  covered  Her  you  have 
lifted.  You  have  won  the  victory,  van- 
quished the  enemy! 


LXI 

Six  d*clock. 

An  orderly  has  just  come  to  say  that  the 
colonel,  our  neighbor,  wants  to  see  me  im- 
mediately. 

I  find  him  sitting  on  his  bed.  In  the  dimly 
lighted  room  his  brilliant  eyes  seem  to  glow. 

He  does  not  give  me  time  to  speak:  "The 
head  surgeon  has  told  me.  Your  boy  is  the 
first  to  go.  I  want  to  send  him  some  flow- 
ers, and  one  can  find  nothing  here.  You 
see  what  I  am  doing?" 

He  had  ordered  the  soldier  who  waits  on 
him  to  bring  him  his  coat  —  the  one  he  was 
wearing  on  the  day  of  the  attack,  the  one 
through  which  the  bullet  passed  just  above 
the  heart.  With  a  pen-knife  he  is  carefully 
cutting  off  his  decorations :  poor  faded  rib- 
bons, they  are  his  emblems  of  Asia,  of 
Africa,  of  the  dust,  the  rain,  the  snow, 
blood,  and  glory,  such  as  he  has  known 
them  in  his  soldier's  life. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       249 

When  he  is  through  he  puts  the  ribbons 
in  my  hand. 

"Give  these  to  your  son  from  me/'  he 
says.  "They  don't  really  mean  anything, 
for  these  decorations  are  mine,  not  his. 
But  they  are  the  things  I  have  cared  most 
about  on  earth.  Give  them  to  him.  Let 
him  take  them  with  him." 

His  fiancee  had  bidden  him  the  farewell 
of  Love.  This  is  the  adieu  of  Honor. 

He  is  not  astonished,  this  soldier,  that  I 
should  not  try  to  thank  him  in  words! 
He  wants  me,  as  a  father  who  must  soon 
close  the  eyes  of  his  son,  to  keep  all  my 
strength  for  the  supreme  moment.  He 
knows  the  only  thing  that  can  comfort 
those  whose  feelings  are  deep. 

He  clasps  me  in  his  arms  an  instant,  com- 
manding: "Go  back  to  him  now,  quickly!" 


LXII 

Eleven  o*clock  p.m. 

He  has  ceased  talking,  he  no  longer 
whispers,  but  for  hours  he  has  been  singing. 

I  know  these  scales.  He  used  to  run 
them  over,  up  and  down,  when  he  was  a 
child  in  arms.  We  used  to  listen,  delighted, 
at  this  song  which  sprang  from  his  baby 
throat.  We  watched  for  the  first  lisping 
syllables  which  soon  would  become  our 
names,  the  sweet  names  that  are  a  reward 
in  themselves  to  all  mothers  and  fathers 
for  all  their  care.  He  seemed  to  realize  then 
that  he  was  accomplishing  some  great 
miracle,  as  his  soul  ventured  thus,  like  a 
ship,  upon  the  unknown  seas,  toward  all 
that  the  future  might  hold  in  store  for  him 
here  below. 

Now  his  eyes  closed,  his  arms  inert,  ly- 
ing here  devoured  by  his  wound,  he  chants 
in  his  failing  voice  I  know  not  what  Service 
for  the  Dead. 


LXIII 

Night  has  closed  in  upon  us.  They  have 
lighted  the  lamps  in  Robert's  room.  The 
head  nurse  is  at  his  bedside.  She  occupies 
the  vacant  place  there. 

How  he  has  changed  during  the  few 
moments  I  was  away  from  him ! 

I  draw  near  to  him,  saying:  "Robert, 
the  colonel  doesn  't  want  you  to  wait  any 
longer  for  the  reward  you  have  been  prom- 
ised; he  has  sent  you  the  ribbons  of  his 
decorations." 

And  I  place  this  treasure  on  his  out- 
stretched hands. 

His  brows  are  lifted  slightly;  his  face 
shows  astonishment,  joy.  He  seems  to  say: 
"These  are  for  me?  I  don't  deserve  them!" 

And  upon  his  lips,  already  contracted  in 
death,  there  is  a  happy  smile,  the  last  one. 


LXIV 

Midnight. 

Some  one  knocks  at  the  door.  Big  Louis 
opens. 

It  is  a  soldier-priest  whom  I  have  often 
seen  in  the  big  wards.  He  says  to  me :  "The 
other  day  I  visited  your  son  on  my  rounds. 
He  spoke  to  me  of  a  brother  whom  he  loved 
very  much,  and  who  has  gone  before  him 
to  heaven.  I  have  come  now  in  memory  of 
that  brother." 

He  goes  to  the  bedside,  and  kneeling 
down  in  his  blue  cloak,  he  murmurs  a 
prayer. 

I  follow  him  with  all  my  soul. 

"O  God,  our  Father,  hidden  from  us  be- 
yond this  world,  this  child  whom  you  are 
taking  spoke  your  name  reverently,  with 
faith.  To  shelter  his  young  love,  so  pure, 
he  longed  for  your  Kingdom  here  on  earth. 
He  has  responded  without  a  murmur  to 
the  dictates  of  your  will.    He  has  never 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       253 

spoken  a  word  of  anger  against  the  enemy 
who  shot  him  down  and  who  rejoiced  to 
see  him  fall.  He  knows  that  when  he  has 
gone  I  shall  fold  my  hands  before  my  daily 
bread  and  that  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  touch 
it.  In  answer  to  such  submission,  such 
suffering,  protect  him.  O  God,  protect  me 
from  the  temptation  that  hovers  between 
You  and  Death.  Silence  the  Voice  that 
cries  out:  'Faith,  Justice,  Duty,  One's 
Country,  Honor?  All  were  but  the  irony 
of  Evil  triumphant!'  " 

The  soldier  closes  his  prayer  with  ardor, 
f  On  the  brow  which  is  growing  cold,  on 
the  hands  which  are  stiffening,  on  the  heart 
which  has  loved  so,  he  makes  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  He  looks  at  me,  and  he  sees  that 
I,  too,  am  nailed  upon  my  cross. 

His  charity  envelops  the  one  who  is  go- 
ing and  the  one  who  must  remain.  He  says 
to  me,  as  he  leaves  us :  "  Let  us  not  be  sor- 
rowful like  those  who  are  without  hope." 


LXV 

Three  o'clock. 

It  is  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  head  nurse  says  to  me:  "His  pulse 
seems  to  have  stopped  beating." 

Godin  and  Big  Louis  weep.  I  take  his 
hands  and  fold  them.  I  close  his  eyes. 

.  ,  .  There  is  more  I  can  do  for  him  still. 

The  rules  of  the  hospital  are  strict.  They 
forbid  his  remaining  now,  vanquished, 
upon  his  bed,  so  near  to  others  for  whom 
the  struggle  is  not  yet  over.  They  exact 
that  he  shall  be  taken  into  a  cellar  room, 
the  antechamber  of  the  tomb,  more  fright- 
ful than  the  tomb  itself. 

Once,  as  the  door  swung  open,  while  I 
was  passing,  I  caught  sight  of  this  Hades. 
I  saw  the  dead  lying  there  in  rows,  scarcely 
covered  over,  waiting  on  the  cold  stones 
until  they  should  be  lowered  into  some 
grave,  corr>mon  to  all. 

The  head  surgeon  is  here.  I  say  to  him: 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       255 

"  Since  you  have  been  so  kind,  in  the  weary 
hours  of  the  night,  as  to  bring  us  the  com- 
fort of  your  presence  here,  grant  us  this 
one  favor ;  don't  separate  us  until  our  vigil 
is  ended.  I  promise  you,  as  soon  as  the  day 
breaks,  you  shall  find  this  bed  empty/' 

The  head  surgeon  reflects.  He  is  solemn. 
He  asks:  "Is  the  coffin  near  here?" 

"Ready  to  be  carried  in  at  a  moment's 
notice." 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  my  fellow  surgeons  and 
I  will  come  at  eight  o'clock  to  pay  our  last 
tribute  to  the  lieutenant." 


LXVI 

Half-past  three. 

For  hours  and  hours  now,  Big  Louis, 
Godin,  the  head  nurse,  have  been  helping 
us.  They  have  forgotten  their  own  increas- 
ing fatigue.  They  have  forgotten  that  to- 
morrow another  day  of  labor  begins  for 
them. 

It  is  not  only  pity  for  him  and  for  me 
which  keeps  them  up;  his  courage  and  my 
love  have  kindled  deeper  feelings  in  their 
hearts.  They,  who  have  seen  so  many 
lonely  death  agonies,  encounter  here,  as  a 
consolation,  the  sort  of  respect  which  en- 
velops Death  in  its  proper  dignity. 

The  head  nurse  says  to  me:  "Tied  be- 
tween the  shoulder  and  the  elbow  of  his 
left  arm,  there  is  a  black  velvet  ribbon. 
When  his  fiancee  was  here,  I  noticed  she 
wore  one  like  it  in  her  hair  Shall  I  leave  it  ? " 

She  lifts  up  the  coarse  linen  shirt  to  show 
me. 


ON  THE   FIELD  OF  HONOR       257 

Ah,  God!  As  she  does  it,  he  moves. 

We  had  thought  his  heart  had  ceased  to 
beat.  Life  was  ended,  but  not  his  love. 
His  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  closed,  thrown 
back  on  his  pillow,  he  says  ''No!''  with 
his  head.  Death,  touched  by  such  loyalty 
as  his,  lets  him  return  an  instant  to  defend 
his  secret,  to  pronounce  the  last  words  be- 
fore entering  into  silence  forever. 

To  this  poor  woman,  so  anxious  about 
her  own  son,  who  has  nursed  him  as  a  son, 
he  murmurs:  "Thank  you!" 

To  me,  whose  eyes  he  may  not  close,  he 
gives  up  his  soul,  with  this  word  on  his 
lips:  "Papa!" 

And  now,  it  is  the  peace  of  Death. 

The  lamps  may  be  extinguished,  the 
day  may  dawn,  the  coffin  may  be  brought 
in. 


LXVII 

My  three  friends  have  been  given  his 
strict  orders;  not  afterward,  even,  am  I 
to  see  the  wound  which  has  sapped  his  hfe. 

To  obey  him  now  is  a  last  tribute  to  pay, 
as  though  he  were  Hving. 

I  have  much  to  do  for  him  still,  for  day 
is  breaking  and  we  must  make  haste.  In 
the  little  pillow  which  I  have  made  to  put 
under  his  head,  I  shall  place  his  love- 
letters,  the  letters  from  his  sister,  Marie- 
Rose,  mine,  those  from  his  friends.  And 
the  portraits  which  he  carried  with  him 
always;  his  mother's,  one  of  Helen,  one  of 
his  brother  Guy,  mine,  some  "snap-shots" 
made  last  spring,  before  he  was  engaged, 
when  he  used  to  go  to  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne with  her,  after  church,  on  Sunday; 
a  picture  of  Helen  and  himself,  standing 
together  under  the  basket  of  flowers  he  sent 
her  the  day  of  their  engagement.  .  .  . 

This  is  not  the  moment  to  look  at  these 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       259 

photographs.  I  shall  see  them  all,  and  oth- 
ers, later.  There  will  be  time  then. 

When  I  return  after  a  moment,  our 
friends  have  covered  his  bed  with  white. 
They  have  brought  in  some  flowers,  the 
last  of  the  garden,  to  place  about  his  head, 
to  scatter  over  the  sheets. 

He  seems  to  belong  to  me  now,  as  never 
before. 

I  must  not  give  way  to  this  feeling  of 
peace. 

I  have  made  a  promise  and  I  must  keep 
it. 

Just  as  we  were  laying  him  in  the  coffin, 
his  eyelids,  which  I  had  closed,  are  lifted. 
The  strange  terror  which  has  haunted  his 
eyes,  since  he  has  been  pursued  by  tor- 
menting visions,  has  vanished.  Until  I 
cover  his  face,  he  seems  to  look  at  me  with 
a  confiding  tenderness,  with  the  eyes  of  his 
childhood's  days. 

We  have  finished.  The  pillow  is  under 
his  head ;  the  ribbons  of  the  colonel's  deco- 
rations are  pinned  on  his  breast,  the  flowers 
are  spread  out  over  his  shroud, 


26o       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

"Now  give  me  the  flag  to  cover  him.  .  .  /' 

"My  Robert!" 

Why  do  I  call  to  him  thus,  since  I  know 
he  cannot  answer  me  ? 

Dear  friends,  who  stand  about  me,  we 
are  looking  for  the  last  time  at  his  face.  I 
was  so  happy  the  day  he  was  born.  Come! 
come!  I  must  show  as  much  courage  as 
he.  Let  me  kiss  his  brow.  I  shall  see  him 
now  only  through  the  flag. 


LXVIII 

Eight  6*clocki 

The  head  surgeon  arrives,  followed  by 
the  professor  from  Nancy,  and  by  their 
colleagues. 

They  have  put  on  full-dress  uniform  to 
bring  us  their  condolences. 

In  the  shadows  which  envelop  the  world, 
these  men  are  like  a  ray  of  consolation, 
through  the  effort  they  make,  with  their 
science,  and  with  their  kindliness,  to  bind 
up  the  agonies  which  the  Power  of  Evil 
spreads  broadcast. 

I  want  to  express  to  them  my  gratitude: 

"Gentlemen,"  I  say,  "with  this  son,  to 
whom  your  compassion  pays  tribute  here, 
my  name  dies  out.  It  dies  well,  thanks  to 
him.  As  for  you,  you  have  assisted  him 
until  the  last  beat  of  his  poor  heart.  I 
thank  you  as  well.  For  him,  and  for  my- 
self, for  his  ancestors  before  him,  for  the 
mothers  and  those  who  love  and  who  are 


262       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

too  far  away  in  their  anguish,  to  show  you 
their  gratitude,  I  thank  you. 

"It  is  because  of  your  care  that  so  many 
wounded,  who  seemed  lost,  are  able  to  rise 
up  from  their  beds.  It  is  you  who  quiet  the 
sufferings  of  those  who  must  go  to  the  end 
of  their  torment. 

"  For  this  precious  gift  of  your  learning, 
and  your  brotherly  tenderness,  may  you 
be  rewarded  through  those  you  love." 

The  head  surgeon  looks  for  a  moment 
at  the  coffin,  then  he  answers:  "We  shall 
keep  the  memory  of  your  son  with  those 
we  cherish  most  in  our  hearts." 

And  the  professor  from  Nancy  adds :  "We 
doctors  weep  for  him." 


LXIX 

The  almoner  sends  me  word  that  he  is 
going  off  on  his  bicycle  to  give  the  last 
sacraments  to  some  dying  man  in  a  neigh- 
boring village.  He  can't  come  to  us  before 
four  in  the  afternoon. 

So  1  begin  the  watch  by  my  boy's  side. 

Above  his  head  I  have  placed  the  cap  he 
had  on  when  they  picked  him  up.  It  has 
the  blue  coiffe  over  it.  The  number  of  his 
regiment  is  embroidered  there  in  the  threads 
of  gold  which  a  little  village  girl,  in  Au- 
gust, had  unravelled  from  some  braid. 
Hidden  underneath  is  the  number  of  his 
former  regiment,  the  one  he  left  voluntarily 
in  order  to  be,  from  the  first  instant,  as 
near  as  possible  to  the  front. 

Across  his  chest  I  have  laid  his  sword. 
The  sheath  was  twisted  under  him  as  he 
fell,  the  blade  broken. 

The  head  nurse,  Godin,  Big  Louis,  have 


264       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

left  me  to  go  to  other  sufferers.  I  am  alone 
with  him  and  with  my  memories. 

I  can  see  him  playing  about  me,  as  he 
did  when  he  was  a  little  child,  in  his  sailor 
suit.  He  spends  the  winters  on  the  Medi- 
terranean, where  his  convalescence  is  as- 
sured by  a  princely  hospitality,  extended 
at  the  same  time,  and  proudly,  to  a  king. 

Before  the  door  of  this  sovereign,  my 
little  sailor  boy  stands  guard.  The  king, 
as  he  comes  out,  returns  the  salute  of  this 
little  child,  as  solemn  as  though  he  were 
accomplishing  a  great  duty. 

Now,  again,  we  are  together  on  our 
farm  in  Algiers.  I  have  turned  the  gran- 
ary into  a  riding-school  where  I  teach  him 
to  ride.  He  clings  to  the  bareback  horse 
whose  mane  fairly  covers  him  as  he  gallops 
around. 

Then  he  goes  to  spend  a  year  with  his 
mother  and  his  brother  in  Germany. 

He  travels  in  England.  He  speaks  the 
languages  of  these  two  countries  like  his 
own.  He  reads  Italian,  Portuguese,  Span- 
ish, and  yet,  before  me,  he  always  remains 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       265 

silent.  I  say  to  him:  "My  dear  Robert,  are 
you  afraid  of  me?" 

He  answers  that  it  is  out  of  respect. 

He  attaches  no  importance  to  himself, 
nor  to  his  wishes.  He  looks  upon  his 
brother  as  a  superior  officer  who  decides 
upon  the  plan  of  campaign  and  tells  him 
what  he  is  to  do.  The  day  this  beloved 
brother  vanished  from  his  vision,  he  said 
to  us:  "How  much  better  if  it  could  have 
been  I!" 

And  on  his  face  I  see  an  expression  of 
terror,  of  shame  that  he  should  still  be  liv- 
ing. 

Now  he  is  a  youth,  almost  arrived  at 
manhood.  He  is  about  to  be  graduated  as 
chemical  engineer  from  the  School  of  Chem- 
istry. 

One  day  while  he  and  his  companions  are 
handling  some  inflammable  substance  in  a 
wooden  shed,  a  fire  breaks  out.  All  make 
a  rush  to  get  away.  Some  one  runs  to  the 
back  of  the  laboratory  and  cuts  off  the 
gas  to  avoid  an  explosion.  It  is  Robert. 
He  always  bears  the  marks  on  his  face  of 


266       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

a  slight  burn  which  scarred  him  that  day, 
and  which  grows  scarlet  when  the  air  is  cold. 

Another  day,  during  a  vacation  which 
he  spent  at  the  seashore  in  Brittany,  in 
the  middle  of  the  morning  bath,  a  cry  of 
distress  rises  above  the  shouts  of  general 
merriment ;  a  young  man  and  a  young  girl 
have  got  beyond  their  strength  in  deep 
water.  A  vigorous  arm  swims  out  to  their 
rescue.  After  diving  and  bringing  them  to 
the  shore  this  anonymous  person  is  greeted 
with  the  bravos  of  the  crowd.  It  is  Robert 
again.  He  does  n't  want  his  mother  to  be 
anxious  thinking  that  her  last  son  is  in 
danger.  We  hear  of  this  act  of  bravery 
several  days  later,  by  chance,  when  we  see 
the  mother  of  the  two  imprudent  young 
people  rush  up  to  thank  him  in  the  street. 

So  it  was. 

He  was  as  modest  as  he  was  courageous. 

Oh !  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  things 
were  happening  now  as  our  ancestors  used 
to  suppose,  if  his  mother,  his  brother,  his 
young  comrades,  were  able  to  greet  him. 
in  the  other  world,  if,  between  their  joy. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       267 

hidden  from  me  and  my  grief,  there  were 
only  the  space  of  the  blue  heavens ! 

Whatever  may  be  the  reality,  as  you  have 
planned  it,  O  God,  you  cannot  but  open 
the  way  to  such  a  simple  heart ! 


LXX 

H alf -past  four  p.m. 

The  priest  has  taken  him.  Our  friends 
were  gathered  about  the  gate ;  they  bade  us 
farewell. 

It  was  raining  early  this  morning.  Now 
the  sky  is  lowering;  as  night  draws  near  the 
air  is  chilly. 

At  the  top  of  the  short  cut  by  which  we 
descend  in  spite  of  the  sharp  turning,  be- 
cause it  is  growing  late  and  we  must  hurry, 
two  colonels  are  stationed,  in  full-dress  uni- 
form. 

They  salute  their  young  comrade,  they 
clasp  my  hand,  and  they  join  our  little  pro- 
cession. 

The  commanding  general  of  the  Staff, 
the  governor-general  of  the  fort,  have  sent 
them  as  a  mark  of  honor.  The  director  is 
there,  too;  he  represents  the  hospital.  He 
wanted  to  go  with  me  to  the  end.  I  walk 
ahead,  alone,  close  to  my  boy. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       269 

Before  going  down  into  the  sunken  road, 
I  look  once  more  about  me. 

Here  are  the  hills  upon  which  his  eyes 
rested  as  they  were  carrying  him  to  the 
summit  of  his  calvary.  Below  us  lies  the 
town  with  its  historic  church  spires;  and 
there,  to  the  right,  at  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
are  the  barracks  from  which  he  dated  the 
letters  he  wrote  us  during  the  first  weeks  of 
the  campaign. 

Some  soldiers  are  exercising  in  the  yard. 
The  sound  of  a  trumpet  reaches  us.  It 
comes  faintly  from  the  distance  which 
makes  everything  look  small. 

Is  it  aloud  that  I  cry  in  agony  or  is  it 
only  my  soul  that  calls  out  to  the  soldiers 
below:  "My  son  is  dead!" 

So  I  follow  him.  I  wanted  him  to  be 
set  down  for  a  moment  before  the  little 
chapel  outside  the  fortifications,  which 
seems  to  have  been  thrust  here  on  to  the 
roadway  in  order  to  bless  the  dead  as  they 
pass.  A  pause  of  ten  minutes  will  not  make 
us  late. 

How  heartrending  is  that  groaning  of  a 


270       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

coffin  as  it  glides  from  the  hearse  to  the 
shoulders  of  the  pallbearers.  Yet,  I  have 
no  desire  to  stop  my  ears,  to  close  my  eyes. 
It  is  my  son  whom  they  are  carrying  here 
between  these  oak  planks,  and,  I  know  it 
of  old,  the  time  will  come  when  I  would 
give  all,  just  to  see  this  coffin  again. 

The  priest  has  transformed  the  sad  little 
chapel  into  a  triumphal  gate  to  Paradise. 
The  flags  are  draped  in  clusters,  the  candles 
are  flickering,  amid  the  brilliance  of  the 
blue,  white,  and  red,  like  so  many  stars, 
which,  at  the  end  of  a  beautiful  day,  appear 
in  the  sky  amid  the  pink  and  the  grey  of 
the  clouds. 

The  priest  is  clad  in  the  garments  stiff 
with  gold.  He  walks  around  the  coffin, 
swinging  his  incense-burner.  He  sends  the 
soul  on  its  way,  toward  the  threshold  of 
the  other  world. 
I  Peace  and  Light! 

This  is  what  we  invoke,  O  Lord,  for 
those  who  leave  us.  This  is  your  promise 
to  us  after  so  much  suffering  in  darkness. 

We  have  to  cross  the  town  from  one  end 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       271 

to  the  other,  then  the  drawbridge,  following 
along  by  the  riverside. 

The  twilight  has  faded  as  we  pass  like 
so  many  shadows  through  the  gate  of  the 
cemetery. 

Everything  has  been  arranged  as  I  had 
hoped. 

While  he  waits  for  the  moment  when  he 
may  go  to  rest  beside  his  mother  and  his 
brother,  between  the  murmuring  forest  and 
the  house  where  he  grew  up,  he  shall  have 
a  safe  place  here. 

My  friend.  Colonel  Etienne,  has  sent  me 
this  message:  "If  he  is  still  here  on  All 
Souls'  Day,  we  shall  carry  flowers  to  his 
grave,  from  the  Staff." 

Sleep  in  peace,  now,  my  son,  these  first 
hours  of  the  sleep  that  shall  know  no  wak- 
ing. As  darkness  closes  in  upon  us  I  leave 
you,  but  you  are  not  alone. 


LXXI 

At  the  hospital,  lying  in  the  bed  where 
Robert  died,  there  is  already  another 
wounded  man. 

In  the  cemetery,  when  I  pushed  open 
the  gate  this  morning,  the  tombstone  had 
been  set  in  place. 

I  have  nothing  more  to  hope  for  here ;  I 
must  leave  now. 

Just  as  I  did  three  weeks  ago,  when  I 
was  hastening  to  him,  I  lean  out  of  the 
train  window.  I  want  to  see,  on  the  hill- 
top, the  place  where  he  gave  up  his  soul. 
What  use  to  weary  my  eyes  and  my  heart 
searching  thus  for  him  ?  Between  the  earth 
and  the  sky  I  hear  a  voice  say  to  me :  "Your 
beloved  is  no  longer  here." 

Beyond  the  heavens,  whose  depths  my 
eyes  seem  to  penetrate,  the  sky  is  blue. 
The  gold  earth  reflects  this  azure  radiance. 
On  each  side  of  the  railway  track  are  rows 
of  mountain  ash  bushes  still,  with  their 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       273 

brilliant  berries,  their  green  leaves;  like  so 
many  plants  of  coral  and  of  green  gold. 
The  increasing  speed  of  the  train  makes 
them  appear  like  a  single  hedge  as  they  fly 
by,  one  after  another.  I  can  scarcely  look 
at  them,  they  are  so  dazzling. 

Why,  O  God,  do  you  show  me  such 
earthly  beauty  at  a  moment  when  I  am 
crushed  under  the  blow  which  has  killed 
my  last  son  ? 

My  people  before  me,  I  following  their 
example,  we  have  lived  for  the  idea  of  per- 
petuating our  honorable  name.  It  is  a 
name  sprung  from  the  fields  of  Normandy, 
from  the  sea  of  Brittany.  It  has  been  a 
watchword  of  duty,  of  hope,  of  all  that  one 
lives  for. 

How  many  times,  as  a  young  man,  have 
I  stamped  out  in  me  the  desires,  however 
passionate,  which  might  have  cast  a  shadow 
on  the  worthiness  of  this  name. 

I  said  to  myself:  "Remember  those  who 
bore  it  before  you,  those  who  shall  bear  it 
hereafter." 

Thus  our  family  name  has  served  me  as 


274       ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR 

a  compass  in  my  life  of  adventures.  It  was 
my  earthly  religion:  a  religion  which  did 
not  detach  one  from  the  other,  but  which 
was  within  my  reach. 

I  had  built  a  temple  for  this  name. 

In  my  forest  home  there  is  a  hall,  high- 
ceilinged  and  long  as  a  church.  Over  the 
chimney-place  are  the  words  of  our  motto, 
"Au  Large!"  —  which  was  carried  by  our 
ships  on  their  pennants  to  all  the  ports  of 
the  world.  Near  by,  as  my  contribution 
to  these  family  treasures,  I  have  hung  the 
map  of  Africa,  where,  amidst  the  volcanic 
mountains  and  the  capricious  windings 
of  strange  rivers,  I  had  the  privilege  of 
writing  our  name  upon  one  of  the  last  mor- 
sels of  unexplored  land  on  the  earth. 

Around  the  map  I  have  grouped  the  fam- 
ily portraits:  Amable,  who  was  a  banker 
in  the  days  of  Louis  XV;  his  son,  an  officer 
in  blue,  who,  by  his  marriage  with  a  Ven- 
deenne,  caused  the  blood  of  the  Chouans 
to  flow  in  our  veins;  Pierre-Cheri,  who  for 
a  moment  held  the  fickle  affections  of 
Princess  Pauline;  Uncle  Gaspard,  who  fol- 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       275 

lowed  Napoleon  to  Saint-Helena;  and  all 
the  Jean-Louis,  all  the  Paul-Louis,  all  the 
Charles-Henri,  all  the  Robert-Hugues,  who 
have  done  their  duty  on  land  and  on  sea, 
since  the  days  when  king  and  country  were 
one,  until  this  present  glorious  resurrection 
of  the  "Marseillaise." 

I  was  not  satisfied  with  building  this 
house  to  shelter  our  name.  I  have  traced 
its  history  in  a  little  book  which  has  touched 
many  hearts. 

This  was  what  I  had  done  out  of  respect 
for  my  forefathers,  out  of  love  for  those 
who  would  continue  the  name.  I  used  to 
recall  proudly  the  saying  of  some  philoso- 
pher: "He  has  lived  fully  who  has  brought 
up  a  son,  built  a  house,  written  a  book." 

O  God,  how  have  you  treated  this  too 
human  wisdom! 


LXXII 

As  I  was  leaving,  several  letters  were 
handed  to  me;  among  them,  one  from 
Marie-Rose,  my  daughter,  the  only  remain- 
ing child.  She  writes  me  from  a  hospital, 
where,  since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  like 
all  the  women  of  France,  she  has  been 
nursing  the  wounded. 

I  scarcely  dared  open  this  letter  of  my 
bereaved  child.  I  was  afraid  of  finding  the 
tears  which  must  flow  for  her  own  loss  after 
so  many  sorrows  as  have  followed,  one 
upon  another,  this  year.  At  eighteen  she 
has  a  mother  and  two  brothers  in  the  tomb. 

My  little  Marie-Rose,  I  feared  the  read- 
ing of  your  letter  would  take  my  remaining 
strength.  .  .  .  But  in  your  grief  you  com- 
fort me,  as  it  is  only  of  my  sorrow  you 
are  thinking:  "So,  my  dear  father,"  you 
write,  "you  have  suffered  everything  .  .  ." 

You  understand  all  too  clearly  how  my 
soul   is   torn.    And   your   comprehension 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       277 

comes  as  a  refreshment.  It  inspires  you  to 
write  this  sentence,  at  which,  as  humble  as 
love,  God  must  Himself  smile:  "The  sons 
which  I  could  give  you  won't  count." 

They  will  count,  my  child,  they  will 
count.  Our  fathers  have  not  lost  all,  since 
you  are  living. 


LXXIII 

And  now,  what  am  I  to  do? 

One  of  the  last  times  that  we  talked  to- 
gether, he  and  I,  like  friends  whose  thoughts 
run  on  together,  side  by  side,  toward  the 
same  horizon,  my  dear  son  said  to  me: 
"The  men  of  your  generation  must  keep 
on  working;  they  must  live  to  a  good  old 
age!  Otherwise,  who  will  be  left  to  direct 
the  children?  Who  can  help  them  to  fill 
the  breach  left  by  so  many  dead?  The 
traditions  of  France  must  not  perish  with 
us.  It  is  the  men  of  your  age  who  must 
gather  up  what  remains  and  forge  a  new 
link  in  the  broken  chain.  Those  who  have 
lost  their  sons  shall  find  in  the  fatherless 
children  dear  companions  to  love  and  to 
guide." 

It  was  not  only  out  of  affection,  my 
Robert,  that  you  spoke  thus  to  me.  You 
were  talking  with  the  perspicacity  of  the 
fearless  on  the  threshold  of  the  other  world. 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       279 

Just  now,  as  I  was  looking  out  of  the 
train  window,  at  the  passing  landscape,  I 
saw  an  old  man  ploughing  a  field.  A  child, 
caught  up  from  his  childish  games,  bridle 
in  hand,  was  leading  the  aged  horse.  The 
grandfather,  bowed  earthward,  was  push- 
ing with  all  his  strength.  Above  the  tombs 
he  was  preparing  for  this  little  child  the  fu- 
ture harvest. 

I  shall  work  in  the  same  way. 


LXXIV 

How  beautiful  this  French  country  is, 
through  which  we  pass,  in  its  autumn 
glory. 

The  forest,  which  used  to  cover  these 
hillsides,  remains  like  a  crown  upon  their 
summit.  Among  this  wild  tangle  of  trees, 
generations  of  effort  have  made  the  green 
meadows,  the  gentle  shelter  of  the  valleys. 
Roads  wind  their  way  easily  from  one 
height  to  another,  from  one  church  steeple 
to  another;  gayly  they  go,  bringing  to  all 
the  happy  chances  of  reunion. 

There  is  room  here  for  the  wheat,  for 
the  vineyards,  for  the  villages  and  the 
towns,  for  the  churches  and  the  schools,  for 
the  graves  and  for  the  cradles. 

The  sky,  which  spreads  itself  above  this 
blessed  land,  seems  to  be  one  with  it,  as  a 
soul  seems  one  with  a  beautiful  form. 

This  is  not  a  mere  highway.  It  is  a  safe 


ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR       281 

harbor,  a  mother,  a  sweetheart.  It  has  a 
spiritual  personality,  it  is  Our  Country! 

To  live  for  such  a  country,  to  die  for  such 
a  country.  . . . 

It  is  worth  while! 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .   A 


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389G65 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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